


Unprecedented

by mattthedungeonbat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: ADHD Character(s), Abusive Parents, Age Difference, Asexual Character, Asian Character(s), Autistic Character(s), BAMF Rupert Giles, Biracial Character, Bottom Rupert Giles, Child Abuse, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Daddy Issues, Dom Rupert Giles, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Gay Male Character, Homophobia, I'll tag as I write, Internalized Acephobia, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mommy Issues, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Platonic BDSM, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Racism, Self-Harm, Sub Angel (BtVS), Switch Spike (BtVS), This is basically a cringey self insert fic, Top Spike (BtVS), Trans Male Character, Transphobia, and also me, but doesn't know it fully yet, but in the 90s, in which the slayer is an adult, oc is ftm, there are a lot of tags i need for this that apparently dont exist yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattthedungeonbat/pseuds/mattthedungeonbat
Summary: Rupert Giles has been sent to Sunnydale on a hunt. Ever since the death of the previous Slayer, the Council has been at a loss. They know a new Slayer has been activated, but they have no clue who she is. The signs all point to here, and now Rupert just has to find her-- But he is not prepared for the person he meets.





	1. The Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert finds the Slayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello welcome to my self insert Buffy fic. This is what we call a slowburn, folks. If you ain't into older men, don't read. If you ain't into age gaps between consenting adults, don't read. If you ain't into 90s style trans- and homophobia, definitely Do Not Read.  
> However, if you want basically the Buffy show but with the Slayer being an adult trans guy who maybe fucks Giles, then yeah welcome you're in the right place, read on.
> 
> DISCLAIMER that this is currently just the first draft of the story. It's not well-written, I'm just making it exist right now.

PROLOGUE

 

It’s daytime in Sunnydale, a tiny town in California. The weather is warm, coming off the high of Summer. At face value this is a lovely place; the good part of town is clean and normal and the bad part of town is relatively tame. Rupert Giles has been sent here by the Watcher’s Council in order to find and hopefully, ultimately train, the Slayer.

They know she’s here. Even if they hadn’t been following her trail, they would have guessed she’d be here anyways. For all Sunnydale’s quaint looks and innocent name, the place draws mystical beings like moths to a flame. The Slayer was, technically, one such being, and even if she wasn’t she’d be compelled to head towards the darker forces that filled Sunnydale anyways. Rupert had been selected as the one to train the Slayer, with one enormous blinding problem. For all that the Council knew the Slayer was in Sunnydale, they hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.

It shouldn’t have been so hard to find her. The last slayer had died barely a year ago, and the new girl activated should have been incredibly obvious. Many potential Slayers were under direct observation, or at least known of. It was possible to miss potentials, true, but a Slayer? They should have been able to find her.

And yet they could not. The only reason they even knew where she was in the first place was because there had been an unmistakable number of coincidences trailing down the West Coast towards Sunnydale. It was a chance, sending a Watcher here when they didn’t even know who to look for. But it was a chance that had to be taken.

For his part, Rupert has…. A feeling. It’s not a strong feeling, no, barely even an inkling. But still there nonetheless; he has the tiniest hint of an intuition as to why the Slayer has not been found. Still, inkling or no, he’s in Sunnydale now. There’s no way he could miss the Slayer when they’re in the same town.

\---

In the bad part of town, a dumpster sits slightly away from the wall in an alley, it’s lid turned up and back to form a roof. Behind it, a small figure sleeps. It’s daytime, and Sunnydale does have a few bums around. No one disturbs them.

* * *

 

_Thursday, Fourth of September, 1997_

_The first day of school for Sunnydale High_

_Rupert Giles_

 

Rupert sighs, taking off his glasses. The desk in front of him is littered with newspapers, the one on top displaying an article about missing boys, still unfound. Sunnydale is a small town, everyone knows. It shouldn’t be this hard to find some missing teenagers. And really, it isn’t. For Rupert has just gotten a call; a dead body turned up in the girl’s locker room of Sunnydale High.

There aren’t a lot of places to hide a body in a small town, he allows, but the locker room of a high school? How macabre. His informant said the body fell out onto some poor child as she opened her locker, Rupert can unfortunately imagine the shock. This tells him many things; that the killer was sloppy, that they have been targeting only students which likely means they have a way of meeting students, and that there is something going to happen very soon. This is the fourth boy to die in as may weeks, although he’s the first body found. Whatever is going to happen, it will be happening soon.

And in order to stop it Rupert needs the Slayer.

Whom he does not have.

“Damn it,” he whispers, tossing his glasses onto his desk.

This is all so complicated…. But, no, it doesn’t need to be. He rubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. Rupert Giles has faced much worse than a tardy Slayer, he can handle this.

The first order of business, then, reconnaissance. Where have the killers been picking up these high school students? Rupert reluctantly puts his glasses back on and shuffles through the newspapers, pulling one from near the bottom and flipping a few pages. Yes-- there. 'The Bronze,' some club popular with the children of Sunnydale. _That’s where I would go, were I looking for young flesh._

He glances at his clock-- nearly evening. Rupert so despises fieldwork, and he’ll surely stick out like a sore thumb in a club; if not for his clothes than for his maturity. _The height of irony, considering the places I used to haunt…._ But he’ll go. He doesn’t have the Slayer’s ability to sense demonic entities, he won’t be able to see them the way she could. But he might see... something.

\---

The bottom edge of the sun has just touched the horizon when the small figure sleeping behind the dumpster awakens. Pale green eyes stare into the dark and grime below the dumpster, flicking back and forth as their owner takes inventory.

It’s been a rough few days. The person rolls a bit onto their back, looking up at the dumpster lid. Every night for days, they’ve been having nightmares. Not the usual sort, either-- they’re no stranger to nightmares. No, recently they’ve been… closer to visions. Vivid, yet fragmented and disjointed, making little to no sense. The most prominent message was of death and danger.

No sense dwelling on it now, though. The person sits up and scoots their way out from behind the dumpster, swiping the grime from their clothes as they stand. They don’t have a bag, just the clothes on their back-- the old, baggy, thoroughly worn clothes on their back. They scruff a hand through short, light hair so it stands on end, and begin to walk.

The sun sets as the short figure makes their way through the back alleys of Sunnydale. They stick close to the wall, their gait rolling and trained. 'Mischievous,' someone had described it once. The walk of someone who causes trouble. No one stops the figure, or even sees them, for they walk exclusively in the dark shadows spreading between the walls.

And then they stop. They’re nowhere notable, and no one is near them, but they stop and turn and cast an unamused gaze behind them. When no one shows, they quirk an eyebrow.

A man melts out of the shadows, luminously pale and ruggedly good looking. The two stare at each other for a moment.

A knife drops out of the small figure’s sleeve into their waiting hand.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” The man holds up his hands, empty and palms forward, slowly. 

The figure snorts quietly.

“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m here to help.”

They snort again and their arm whips back, preparing to throw the knife.

“Wait!” Cries the man. “Please. Okay? Really. Look, something’s going on soon, I’m just makin’ sure you know. Because this isn’t something I can kill myself. I brought you a…. An olive branch, I guess.”

Very slowly, he pulls a black jewelry box out of his jacket pocket, and setting it on the ground, kicks it halfway between them.

“That’s all. I’m not gonna hurt you. Just know that the Harvest is coming, and I can’t be the one to stop it.”

How interesting…. The figure lets him melt away into the dark. A helpful vampire? Strange….. When they can no longer sense his presence, they approach the jewelry box and poke it open with their knife. A silver cross pendant on a chain glimmers in the low lighting.

The figure scoffs. Hilarious, a vampire giving someone a cross as a gift. Very cautiously, they reach down a fingertip to brush the edge of the cross….. And after a few seconds in unnatural stillness, they take the necklace from the box and slip it into their pocket. No contact poisons, no curses. Clean. A real olive branch, then.

It’s only a few more alleys before the small figure makes it to the Bronze. The bouncer somehow doesn’t notice the shorter figure among the gaggle of teenagers coming towards him, doesn’t notice there’s someone he missed.

\---

Rupert stands in the upper floor of the Bronze, lip curled in discomfort. Loud music had been his scene at one point, true, but it had been _good_ loud music. And he had been much closer in age to the pressing bodies around him. This is just…. Distasteful. He scans the crowd below, idly wondering what it would be like to be the Slayer, to be able to look at the roiling crowd and simple _know_ which ones, if any, where vampires. To Rupert, they’re all the same. He can’t tell one from the other.

Until he feels his gaze skip. It’s like an itch on the surface of his eyes-- magic. Magic, telling him that someone down there is nothing interesting, nothing to look at, as dull as a pebble on the sidewalk, just move on. A witch? He blinks hard, trying to dispel the itch, and leans over the rail. Where is it coming from? Rupert draws his own magical skills to fight it, and suddenly finds himself staring into the upturned face of a small girl.

She looks around the same age as the high schoolers around her, maybe fourteen or fifteen, soft cheeks not quite hiding strong bone structure. Her hair is cut boyishly short, glowing orange in the light as it sticks up every which way, and he can see even from here that her eyes are the palest shade of green. The large leather jacket she wears obscures the vast majority of her outfit.

Her eyes narrow at him the longer he stares, and Rupert jerks himself out of observation mode. A witch, trying not to be noticed amongst a crowd of high schoolers. How curious. Is she a student at Sunnydale? Somehow, the girl’s eyes narrow even further, and Rupert is vaguely reminded of an extremely pissed off cat. She begins to make her way through the crowd, and although she lowers her chin to face forward, Rupert can feel her attention is still riveted on him.

In no time at all the girl-- and Rupert can now see she’s extremely diminutive, nearly two feet shorter than some of the young men she weaves through-- has made her way up to the second floor. She brushes past behind him, not even glancing his way, but he feels her fingers dance across the small of his back and senses her magic suggest that he follow. He does so, at a distance; at some points the only way he doesn’t lose her in the crowd is the pull of her magic. She leads him down the stairs, to the back halls of the Bronze that lead to the restrooms.

It’s darker here, quieter. The close walls muffle the sounds of the band and the gaggle of high school students. The girl doesn’t stop walking until they’re in a well out of the way dead end, and then she stops and steps back slightly, silently inviting Rupert to corner himself before her. He obligingly does so; it’s no trouble to him to put a young witch at ease, especially if she could give him information.

That is, he thought it was no trouble. The girl squares herself before him, posture steady and solid. Her expression is calm, eyes lidded as she tilts her chin up-- not because she has to in order to look at his face, but because she’s displaying dominance. She knows Rupert can’t hurt her-- and all of a sudden, as if being stabbed in the stomach, Rupert knows it too.

“You’re the Slayer,” He breathes out, and his world is spinning from the shock. He’s vaguely glad she put him in a corner for this; it means he has something to lean on.

“The _what,_ ” She demands, her voice considerably deeper than he’d have expected from such a small, sweetly-faced girl.

“The-- You’re-- the chosen one, one girl in all the world to stand up to the forces of evil, I--”

She scoffs, and Rupert is struck by the strange thought that she carries herself somewhat like a man… like a ruffian. Her head doesn’t even reach his chin and yet she gives off the impression of being much larger than she truly is.

“I’m the _chosen one?”_ She mocks, her voice dripping with venom. “Really.”

Well that attitude is uncalled for. “Yes, _really!_ We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“We,” She repeats. Rupert’s shock has settled enough for him to note the sudden change in her voice, no longer aggressive but soft and breathy.

“Well-- yes,” He offers. He can’t scare her off now, so he softens his own voice to match hers better. “I’m-- My name is Rupert Giles, I’m what is called a Watcher-- Someone trained to, well, train the Slayer. It is a sacred calling, for me and for you, miss-- what is your name?”

She stares at him, blinking slowly. Her face doesn’t betray a single thought. Rupert waits for her name…. Waits….. It crosses his mind that she should have no reason to be this calculating over a simple question. Eventually she heaves a sigh.

“Casey, I guess.”

“You guess? Is that not your real name?”

She stares some more, so Giles drops it for now. “Miss-- Casey, um. Are you a student at Sunnydale High?”

He needs to determine where she'll be most often, if he needs to apply for a poisiton at the school-- But she snorts, a little lopsided smile curling her lips, and Rupert wonders why that was funny.

“No,” she says, in a tone suggesting he couldn’t be further off.

“Y-you’re not?” Rupert wracks his brain for someplace else she could go to school, with no other high schools in Sunnydale. Homeschooled, maybe? He's not sure how he can train her if that's the case-- maybe a tutor...

She takes a deep breath, that half-smile still pulling one edge of her mouth into a little curl. Rupert can see her deciding to tell him the truth-- a truth which she apparently finds darkly amusing.

“I’m twenty.”

“Oh…”

Twenty. The punchline hits him like a freight train and Rupert finds himself blinking at denim-covered knees; he’s slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Twenty…. Years old. An adult, not a young girl like he first thought. Good _Lord._ The Slayer squats down in front of him, eyebrows raised in a James Dean-ish squint. Rupert can’t find the words to explain to her why he’s unable to stand.

Twenty.

“The--- The last Slayer died at nineteen,” he manages weakly. Casey, eyebrows still raised, sits cross legged on the floor in front of him. “Most Slayers rarely live even that long, it’s practically unheard of. But-- _Twenty.”_

Casey takes a deep breath and lets it out heavily, nodding at the floor. “Well, I don’t know about all this Slayer shit, but I got whatever these powers were at nineteen.”

“Oh, Lord,” Rupert groans, leaning his head back against the wall. Everything is all wrong.

Casey waits quietly for him to recover.

“Lord...” he repeats. “Casey, or whatever you name truly is, I cannot explain to you how incredibly-- _Bamboozled_ I am, by all of this. Most Slayers are activated at a young age, often around fifteen, and they are found immediately and trained for their duty by a Watcher. The fact that you were activated at nineteen, and then survived with no Watcher at all? It’s-- completely unprecedented. I-I’m frankly shocked that you’re alive.”

She snorts, and Rupert gets the impression she agrees with him.

“I’m-- not sure how to handle this situation. An adult Slayer…. And you don’t seem surprised? To hear me mention the… forces of darkness, the…”

“I’m not surprised,” She whispers. “I’ve always known about this stuff. I was dealing with it long before I got these powers. I guess I just thought--” She stops short, swallows.

Rupert decides not to ask how she knew, or what she had thought. They're not in the most private place right now, and he’s too worn out-- too many shocks in one night.

“Casey,” He says instead. “Would you like to know more?”

She looks up at him so quickly Rupert misses the movement itself, and finds himself struck by pale green eyes. She nods, and the movement is tensely restrained to only a few head bobs. Rupert knows that restraint well-- so she’s a bookworm. His brain immediately begins ticking off titles to reccomend to her, his favorite compendiums of lore and myth-- perhaps some of his books on the occult? She may find them fascinating if she's already consciously using her magic... He'd never considered being assigned to a Slayer that actually wanted to learn, before. He'd always assumed it would be a struggle with a young, pigheaded girl, or else the dull instruction of a dutybound automaton.

“Where have you been staying?” He asks, beginning to push himself up from the floor. Casey matches his movements, although she stands much more gracefully while Rupert uses the wall to help. “I can lend you some of my books, I haven’t found a place to train you yet but I’m sure it can be arranged post-haste, now that I can inform the Council you’ve been located-- Casey?”

She’s looking at the floor, and her arms have wrapped across her middle. Protective posture-- directly at odds with her previous open and confident stance. Rupert isn't sure what he's said that she feels the need to hide from...

“I’ve um, I’ve been staying on the streets,” Casey admits quietly.

Oh. “The _streets?_ At night? That’s incredibly dangerou--”

“I sleep during the day," She snaps. “I’m not stupid.”

 _I didn't mean to imply that you were..._ “But you don’t have a place to stay,” Rupert finishes for her, somewhat dumbly.

The Slayer, the Chosen One, a grown adult who was activated at an age most Slayers never live to see and who’s been living on the streets like common riffraff. She nods in response to his question, appearing ashamed of her homeless status.

Unacceptable.

“Then you’ll stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3000 words in four hours..... now my back hurts. Not bad I guess *shrugs*


	2. A Slayer's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert gets his first glance of Casey's style as a Slayer. Casey fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho.... is that.... chemistry I sense?????? Are they..... hitting it of??????????????????????????

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“But you don’t have a place to stay,” Rupert finishes for her, somewhat dumbly._

_The Slayer, the Chosen One, a grown adult who was activated at an age most Slayers never live to see and who’s been living on the streets like common riffraff. She nods in response to his question, appearing ashamed of her homeless status._

_Unacceptable._

_“Then you’ll stay with me.”_

* * *

 

_Thursday, Fourth of September, 1997_

_Casey_

 

Casey feels their brain go dead. This strange, very British man has just offered them a place to stay. Logically, having lived on the streets for four years, Casey should accept.

 _Logically,_ counters Casey’s brain, _he could be any manner of creep._

But he isn’t. Casey has a whole lot going for them, and every single sense is coming back clean. There’s a darkness to the man’s magic, but not a dangerous darkness. Their Spidey Senses-- the name Casey had been using for the extrasensory abilities they’d gained at nineteen-- say this man is safe. Briefly Casey wonders what they might learn where they to touch him-- what flashes of his past they might see with a bit of skin contact.

Still…. Casey has had an unpleasant life. And trust is always a bad idea.

The man raises his eyebrows at them, as if waiting for a response, but Casey doesn’t have one. After a moment he scoffs very quietly and shakes his head.

“Alright. So, miss Casey, why are you here?”

Casey glances back over their shoulder. They can’t see the main floor of the Bronze from here, but the presence of two vampires is still palpable through the walls. Casey wonders what sort of story to tell the man. Should they say they followed the magic? Should they blame it on the nightmares? Or should they say something else? Any of them would be the truth.

“Here as in the Bronze or here as in Sunnydale?” Casey asks instead of answering.

He gives a cough that might also be a laugh, and Casey feels the corner of their mouth quirk involuntarily.

“Here as in the Bronze,” he clarifies. “I imagine I can already guess why you’re in Sunnydale.”

“There’s two vampires,” Says Casey calmly, jerking their head back towards the main floor. “I can feel them clear as day, an older one in white and ice blue and a younger male in red.”

The man narrows his eyes, raising his face towards the floor. “Do you mean their clothes?”

“No, I mean their-- auras, their energy, whatever the hell you wanna call it. I don’t know what clothes they’re wearing.”

He stares into the distance for a second, evidently trying to sense what Casey does, and then gives up. “Well, I suppose you must do your duty then. Although now that I’ve found you, it is my duty to observe and help you in any way I can.”

Casey feels their walls going up. ‘Observe’ is a word they don’t like, and this man….. Seems…. Not stealthy. Stealth is Casey’s main tool, and having a bumbling bookworm along won’t help with that at all.

The man seems to read the doubt on Casey’s face. “I assure you, I’ve been training for this for a very long time. I won’t get in the way. I may even be of some help.”

“Yeah,” Says Casey, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. They turn back towards the halls to the main floor when a spike of white energy freezes them in place.

The older vampire….. Giddy. Bright. The young male’s energy is suddenly muddier, toned down and muddled with brown. Casey finds themself springing forward and vaguely notes the man keeps to their heels.

“Report?” He asks, keeping his voice low.

“The male is leading off his prey, the older one is excited. We need to go.”

“How can you tell?” Asks the man, already slightly breathless as Casey leads him at a swift pace out of the halls and into the main part of the Bronze. It’s too loud to answer here so Casey doesn’t bother, instead following the bright streaks of white energy out the door and into the alleyways.

“The male started masking his energy with brown, which they normally don’t do unless they need to fool their prey.”

After that it’s a quick dash to the cemetery. The older man somehow keeps pace behind Casey, even though Casey knows that they’re a mite faster than your average person. Perhaps it has something to do with Casey being so much damn shorter; the man’s longer legs give him longer strides, expending less energy to keep up with Casey. The cemetery looks empty when they reach it, but Casey can see the light show from inside the mausoleum. The older vampire is there and excited, the male relaxing his brown patterns back to a thirsty dark red.

In what feels like seconds Casey is already at the outer wall of the mausoleum and stays to the side of the door. They gesture with a flat palm to their Watcher; _stay back._

A girl screams from inside.

Casey is in the doorway, both vamp’s backs to them. The knives in their sleeves flash into their hands, and then flash out of their hands and across the short distance. Two surprised grunts, a look of shock on the human girl’s face, and then the two vampires dissolve into dust, Casey’s knives clattering to the floor of the mausoleum.

“Grab your friend and run,” Casey snaps at the girl.

The man is already at their shoulder, and Casey can feel his shocked expression like static electricity across the skin behind their ear. The human girl escorts her fellow victim out of the mausoleum, and the man steps inside to look at Casey’s kills.

Two dust stains sit on the mausoleum floor with Casey’s knives. The man crouches, simply looking for a moment. Then he shakes his head.

"How.... Vampires cannot be killed with metal, and almost always turn to ash anything touching them. How did you kill them with just..." He waves his hands over her two knives. "Just this?"

Casey reaches into an inner pocket of their jacket and pulls out a small wooden sheath. "I use these. They go over the knife blade-- keeps it from cutting me when it's in my sleeve and makes them able to stab and kill vampires, without them dusting my knives. They dust the sheaths, I put a new one on after, no big deal."

The man is silent for a moment. “I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

Casey doesn’t take the time to respond; they’re already whipping around as the girl screams again, this time halfway across the cemetery. They don’t bother to retrieve their knives, knowing they can come back; there are three much younger vampires coming across the lawn towards the two humans and Casey sprints for all they’re worth, needing to intercept. Two vampires attack the girl, who keeps screaming, and Casey aims there first. One vamp they stab with the sheath still in their hand. The other vampire scampers to save it’s own flesh.

Casey whips around, heart pounding as the girl takes off for the road….. But the second victim and the final vampire are gone.

“Shit!” Casey swears. They can feel the boy’s danger like a knife in their throat; the Watcher man hesitates, holding Casey’s knives.

“Shit,” Casey says again. “There’s a civilian in trouble and I don’t know where they’ve taken him. He’s still alive, but--”

“Hush,” He soothes, coming closer and placing one hand gently on Casey’s shoulder as he offers back their knives. “You can feel his life energy, yes? You’ll know if his situation changes. But you won’t be able to do anything right now, and we need a plan.”

Casey accepts their knives in a blind fumble. This feeling of not having saved someone is horrific; worse than pain, worse than guilt. A small part of their mind agrees with the man; they can’t do anything when they’re not thinking clearly. The rest of Casey rebels violently against the thought of giving up.

The man squeezes their shoulder and Casey absently notes that his hand is large and warm and well formed. Their skin tingles beneath his grip so they twist away and he obligingly lets go.

“So what now?” Their voice is dead, but Casey can’t help it. There’s a boy out there who needs help, and Casey is not helping.

“Now, we research.” The man says confidently. “And I call the Council to let them know I’ve found the Slayer…. At last.”

* * *

 

_Friday, Fifth of September, 1997_

 

The man’s apartment is not what Casey expected. The décor is dark, all deep browns and greens and reds. It’s even a bit messy, with stacks of books in odd places and newspapers all over the desk. Casey had thought this man would favor an airier style, but really his décor is quite within Casey’s own decorating taste. Casey sits on his leather couch as the man goes to the telephone on his desk, and calls his…. Council thingy.

“Sir… Yes sir….. Yes, I’ve found her. Yes, I’m sure. Yes…”

As he continues to report, Casey finds their eyes unfocusing. His voice is a gentle murmur in the background of their attention, smooth and calming as the image of the inside of the mausoleum fills Casey’s vision.

Their eyes track across the image. Despite the older vampire’s theatrics, Casey is certain the two humans weren’t just supposed to be food. The male vampire had had a small tail to his energy, like a tether. He’d gone hunting for a reason. The older vampire, whose energy had been much stronger, may also have had a tail but the bright white of it’s own energy had overpowered it and let the vampire disobey.

Which begged the question; why had two vampires been directed to bring prey to a random mausoleum, and for whom? Casey knew what a demon felt like when they intended to feed and kill, and those two hadn’t been even close. Their energy had been calm and amused, cheerful. They were running a cute little errand, not giving in to their demonic vices.

Unsure of where to go from there, Casey casts about for the feel of the boy that had been stolen away. They can still feel the shape of his energy, so to speak, but with alarm begin noting that his energy now has a color to it too. Blue, like denim. A crushing weight takes the breath from Casey’s lungs and they slump where they sit; humans don’t have a color to them. Casey’s too late; they turned the boy.

The man is finishing up his phone call. He writes something down and hangs up the phone. Casey thinks he says something, but can’t understand the words.

“Casey?..... Casey!”

“I’m too late,” Casey breathes.

“What?” The man has crossed the room and kneels in front of the couch, in front of Casey.

“They turned him,” Casey says in something less than a breath.

Understanding fills the man’s face and he bows his head. Casey can’t breathe. They sit in silence, aching silence, unable to draw breath. They’ve failed. They lost a stupid, innocent human.

“Casey,” Admonishes the man gently, as if he knows their thoughts. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You could not have saved him in time, surely you know that.”

Casey does know that. Their logical mind is still turning over facts and observations, piecing together puzzles. They could never have reached the boy and could not have stopped three vampires single handedly whilst completely unprepared. But their soul feels blackened and hollowed out, and rings and echoes with failure. It feels horrible.

The man’s hand settles gently on Casey’s kneecap-- not the top of their leg, but over the patella itself, and Casey flinches involuntarily. It’s an innocent touch, Casey doubts he even realizes fully that he’s done it. Just a simple human reaction, the instinct to offer comfort.

“Casey…. Part of being the Slayer is a…. Supernatural duty, towards others.” He explains quietly. “Some have called it a compulsion…. The primal need to save others. To save innocents from the corruption left on this Earth from eras long since past. It is not rational, and it cannot be ignored. I do not know fully what it is like, because I will never experience it. But I have heard tell of what happens to Slayers who fell prey to their own design.”

He seems to struggle for a moment, unable to find the words. Casey already knows, has already absorbed the lesson he’s trying to impart. They decide to put him out of his misery.

“You’re saying that I can’t save anyone if I let one failure drag me down. That the future of mankind is more important than the death of one child. I did my best and now I need to move on, or else more people will suffer.”

“--Well--” He frowns, seemingly stumped. His thumb runs up and down the outside of Casey’s knee and Casey wishes they weren’t so aware of it. “Well yes, but I’m sure I would have put it somewhat differently.”

Casey snorts humorlessly. “It’s okay. I know what you meant and I can feel how you meant to say it. I get it, alright?”

The man gives a frustrated sigh. “Yes, alright.”

Something clicks in Casey’s ever-puzzling brain and they can’t stop the subconscious “Oh” that escapes their lips. The man frowns up at them in question.

Horrific embarrassment sends flames licking up Casey’s insides. The image of the door on the other side of the mausoleum floats tauntingly behind their closed eyes. A chain and padlock…. That’s it. Their heart slams once, painfully, in their chest. Oh, if only they’d put things together sooner. A fucking chain and padlock and the boy could have been saved _so easily_ ….

“Casey?”

Casey knows if they open their mouth they’ll burst into tears-- stupid reflex, crying due to frustration. They clench their jaw tightly instead, feeling the pressure in their molars and the burn of their mandibular muscles. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry….

“I know how to get to them,” Casey manages, standing up abruptly, displacing the man’s warm hand from their knee. They pace a few steps away, not wanting the closeness.

“--You do?” He asks in surprise, standing slowly from his crouch. Casey can hear his knees crack.  

“The mausoleum. They wouldn’t have taken their prey there for no reason, and they didn’t feel predatory. They didn’t intend to kill. There’s a door at the back of the mausoleum that doesn’t seem to lead anywhere from the outside-- it probably leads down.”

“I see,” He breathes, eyes distant as he thinks. “Yes, that would make perfect sense. Although I can’t quite imagine why there is a mausoleum attached to the sewer system, of all things.”

“The only missing piece is _why,”_ Casey concludes. “What were the prey for, if not eating?”

The man makes a noise somewhere between revelation and question, and spins about for his books. Casey watches him warily.

“Ah, ah, ah-- Yes, here, I merely glanced at it in passing but I remember-- yes.” He taps his finger to the page of a heavy leatherbound tome, peering at the inscription intently. “Yes indeed. Ah…”

His voice drops on the last sound, a steep slant from his usual calm head voice to the chest voice only used for unpleasant revelations. His tapping finger stills on the page, and Casey can’t resist walking closer to him to look.

It’s an image of a winged demon, zapping a person with some form of energy bolt. Casey can’t tell if the demon is casting energy or drawing it, but the man seems to know. His face has relaxed into a neutral state as he reads the text on the opposite page, and seems to drop farther with every word until a frown draws his brows together. He snaps the book closed without saying anything and picks up another… Checks it…. Steps to a stack of old yellowed newspapers on a table behind the couch… Shuffles a few…. Reads one and then sets it down, head bowed as he leans over the table with the old papers on it.

Casey wants to ask him what’s wrong but finds themself unsure what to call him. He’d introduced himself before as Rupert Giles-- should they use Mr. Giles? But that sounds so impersonal… Before they can decide the man sighs and reaches up one hand to rub the bridge of his nose, slightly displacing his glasses.

“What is it?” Casey manages, skipping address altogether. He settles his glasses into place and sighs.

“Bad,” He says simply. “It seems…. It seems that I was not prepared. I overlooked…. Frankly I overlooked some fairly transpicuous signs.” He sounds annoyed with himself, and sighs again. “There is an event tonight of extreme supernatural significance, and an entity I had not considered relevant to the current situation who is, point of fact, the current situation in and of itself.”

He finally stands and turns to face the room, leaning against the edge of the table. “It seems… many years ago, a being made his way to this very town. Although it was a different place back then, he and the locals both knew it to be significant; a Hellmouth. The being tried to open it and, perhaps in his hubris or perhaps simply by fate, destroyed half the town. The chapel in which he stood was plunged into the earth, where he was trapped, unable to escape. He became something of a bottleneck; the weak point between the crushing pressures of two realities. For years, he was trapped, and the Hellmouth remained closed. However….” He adjusts his glasses. “Tonight he will try to break free. That first book detailed the prophecies of the Vessel, a vampire who, bound to the entity in blood, soul, and body, can feed in his place and siphon him the energy he needs in order to break free of his prison. Once he is free, there will be nothing to stop one reality flowing into the next; the Hellmouth will open, and terror will walk free.”

“The Harvest,” Casey says quietly, remembering the beautiful vampire who had given them the olive branch gift. “A harvest of souls.”

“Where did you hear that?” The man asks suspiciously.

Casey decides to be honest. “A vampire approached me to warn me that the Harvest was nigh, and that he couldn’t stop it. He was odd.”

“You didn’t kill him? You seem very quick with those knives.”

Casey pouts. “He wasn’t dangerous. The black stain that most of them have, that shows their demonic need….. His was faint. His offer of help was genuine.”

“Mm,” The man hums doubtfully. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Casey sighs. The end of the world, and it would happen that night. Or… the next night?

“What time is it?”

The man starts from his thoughts and looks over at the clock on his desk. “Ah… five in the morning. Delightful.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Casey is only as tired as they would be normally after a night of hunting, but they can feel the creamy yellow lethargy seeping from the older man.

“Should we sleep?” Casey ventures. “They can’t do anything in the daylight, and we need to be at our best, right?”

“Quite right,” The man says quietly. “I suppose we should try to catch a few hours.”

“I-I’ll just--” Casey gestures awkwardly to the couch.

“Oh no, no, you ought to take my bed, I can--”

“I’m used to sleeping on the ground, I’ll be fine, you’re--”

They both stop. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring Casey to continue. _You’re old_. Casey takes a huge breath and flaps their arms.

“I mean I’ll just, I’ll take the couch and uhh, you know. It’s nothing, don’t um--”

For a second his mouth ripples, as if he’s fighting a smile. “This time. We can settle this when the world is not at stake.”

“Yap,” agrees Casey, staring a hole in the carpet.

He lets out a breath that might be flavored with laughter. “Well, I shall see you on the other side, then. Do try not to sleep through the apocalypse.”

 


	3. Preperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert and Casey prepare to take down the Vessel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh they're getting cosey ;P

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“I-I’ll just--” Casey gestures awkwardly to the couch._

_“Oh no, no, you ought to take my bed, I can--”_

_“I’m used to sleeping on the ground, I’ll be fine, you’re--”_

_They both stop. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring Casey to continue. **You’re old.** Casey takes a huge breath and flaps their arms. _

_“I mean I’ll just, I’ll take the couch and uhh, you know. It’s nothing, don’t um--”_

_For a second his mouth ripples, as if he’s fighting a smile. “This time. We can settle this when the world is not at stake.”_

_“Yap,” agrees Casey, staring a hole in the carpet._

_He lets out a breath that might be flavored with laughter. “Well, I shall see you on the other side, then. Do try not to sleep through the apocalypse.”_

* * *

 

_Friday, Fifth of September, 1997_

_Rupert Giles_

 

Rupert wakes up with the sensation of falling, and he stares at his bedroom ceiling as his memories of the previous night tidy themselves into rows.

The Slayer. He can feel her, hyper aware of her magic where she sleeps on the couch of his apartment. For a moment he considers the irony of having her sleeping in his living room, the first defense anything would encounter should it somehow both locate and decide to attack him. Truly, she was a more formidable Slayer than he had expected her to be.

And he had found her right in time to stop the end of the world.

What luck. Rupert rises from bed slowly, noting that he only slept a few hours. He’s never been able to sleep much, truth be told. Perhaps some sort of genetic trait of Watchers. It’s barely nine in the morning but Rupert has work to do; he freshens up and changes his clothes; no tweed when he’s in his own home, and not with an apocalypse in mere hours. No jacket at all for now; he rolls up his shirt sleeves instead.

He exits his bedroom cautiously, and steps delicately across the carpet to peek over the back of the couch. The Slayer is still asleep, looking uncomfortably young for her age. She does snore, Rupert notes, but it’s the tiniest and gentlest snore possible for a person to make; he hadn’t been able to hear it from his room.

After a moment’s hesitation Rupert decides to make breakfast. A late breakfast, for him, but both he and the Slayer will need sustenance for the coming fight. His plan is unoriginal, scrambled eggs and toast, since he doesn’t know what the Slayer might like, but he makes a large quantity in anticipation of the rumored voracious appetite Slayers tend to sport.

Losing himself to the routine, it’s a while before Rupert notices the energy around him is a little different. He looks around to try and place why and suffers a violent shock-- The Slayer is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, most of her body obscured by the wall, watching him with one eye as she leans her forehead against the doorframe.

Rupert huffs and puffs for a moment, one hand over his chest as he tries to regain his breath and still his thundering heart. The Slayer flashes the briefest of smiles at his discomfort and he narrows his eyes at her, unable to speak.

“Good _morning,”_ He manages breathlessly, unable to keep his tone from being petulantly accusing.

A flash of a grin, gone faster than it formed.

“Mornin’,” She responds, her voice deep and mellow from sleep. The corners of her eyes are just slightly crinkled.

Rupert scoffs and turns back to his cooking, heartbeat still a bit too fast. Children and their unnecessary pranks.

“The food is almost done,” He says, somewhat tersely. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

She blinks at him, and then pushes herself away from the doorframe and walks-- completely silently, Rupert notices-- to the low table in front of the couch. She begins to shift his books and papers out of the way, and Rupert almost calls for her to stop before he sees how reverently her hands caress the ancient leather bindings. She doesn’t add one pile to another, not even the papers-- she simply moves each collected pile off of the table, and places them in an out of the way place in a radius around the table from where he’d had them initially. Maintaining his organization in a way he can put it back the way it was easily.

In no time Rupert brings out a large platter to the coffee table, as well as two empty plates and utensils. The Slayer doesn’t sit on the couch; she kneels on the ground in front of the coffee table and touches her plate hesitantly, looking up at him as if to ask permission to take some food. Strange.

“Go ahead,” Rupert says with a wave of his hand, not yet sitting down. “Would you like tea? Or something else to drink?”

“Tea is fine,” She demurs, turning the handle of her fork over and over in her hand subconsciously.

“Milk, sugar?”

She shakes her head.

Rupert fixes their tea in the kitchen, but he watches the Slayer out of the corner of his eye. She moves silently-- always so quiet, filling her plate with eggs and two slices of toast. When she’s done that she looks around the room before glancing back towards him-- Rupert moves his eyes to the tea, stirring sugar and milk into his cup meticulously. A few seconds to wait…. He flicks his eyes back to the Slayer, who is taking tiny bites of egg from her fork as if sneaking them before the head of the family has commenced the meal.

Why is she so hesitant? Rupert brings their tea to the living room and sets hers down on the coffee table. He declines to sit on the floor, opting for the couch instead in an attempt to save his poor knees, and the Slayer waits to really begin eating until after he has taken a few bites.

Casey seems perfectly fine with a bland meal and blander tea, Rupert notes. After a while she even begins to sway and bounce in place a little, like she’s dancing.

“Is everything to your liking?”

She jumps, and turns to look up over her shoulder at him. “Oh, yes, thank you.”

“You can have as much as you like,” Rupert says, hoping she’ll not stop eating over some perceived one-plate rule. “I made much more than I would have normally.”

As it turns out, Rupert was absolutely right to make so much food. The tiny girl somehow eats three plates of eggs and eight pieces of toast, and when Rupert stands to wash his plate in the sink, she takes the hint and finishes off what was left on the platter herself. It makes sense for a superhuman Slayer to have a high metabolism, Rupert knows, but part of him still can’t believe the diminutive girl has eaten so much food by herself. After a few moments of her humming to herself as she settles from the large meal, the Slayer stacks the rest of the dishes and brings them to the kitchen, where Rupert takes them from her hands without allowing her space in front of the sink. He’s very particular about how his dishes are washed, and besides. This girl is a guest; guests don’t do household chores. She seems shocked for a moment before respectfully retreating from the kitchen.

By the time Rupert has meticulously hand washed, inspected, and dried his dishes, the Slayer has repopulated the surface of the coffee table with his research. Rupert looks over the table as he makes his way back to the couch; as far a he can tell, everything is within millimeters of where he’d placed it originally.

“Do you have a photographic memory?” He asks curiously, sitting beside her on the couch.

“O-oh, uh, I don’t know,” She stutters, waving her hand in a flip-flopping figure eight.

Rupert nods and reaches for one of his books, opening to a page with sketches on it; busts of various vampires, with strange triskelion symbols between them or somehow marked upon their faces.

“Here,” He says, holding the book towards the Slayer. She doesn’t take it from him, instead leaning closer to see the page. “Do you remember last-- well I suppose it was this morning, what I explained about the Vessel?”

She nods, her eyes devouring the drawings on the page, memorizing them he thinks, from the way her eyes flick. Not a photographic memory, Rupert concludes. But very close to one. He'll have to test that in the future....

“The Vessel is a vampire who is connected to the entity below Sunnydale in mind, body, and soul, who he will use to feed upon the souls of humans and gain the strength to break free.” She recites.

“Precisely.”

“It this the mark?” She asks, clearly meaning the triskelion designs.

“Uh well-- renditions of it, yes. As far as I can tell the only commonality is that the mark will be three-pointed, and inscribed somehow upon the Vessel’s head or face. The prophecies are very vague.”

“Is the Vessel special in any way?” She asks, now looking at the text next to the drawing, which Rupert knows is in a mixture of Latin and Old English. He doubts she understands most of it, from how slowly her eyes track across each word.

“Other than the aforementioned connection to his superior, no, not that I can tell. It would behoove the beast to pick a vampire stronger than one’s average, I suppose, but I believe any vampire can be the Vessel.”

“Alright,” She says, nodding to herself. “So my goal is to kill this Vessel, whoever it may be, before it consumes enough souls to free it’s master.”

“Preferably before it consumes _any_ souls,” Rupert says, mostly to himself, closing the book with one hand.

Casey sighs. “Preferably, yes. But it’ll be hard to find. Unless that mark makes the Vessel feel different in some way compared to normal vampires, it’ll be a needle in a haystack. Ideally I would be able to find and kill this thing before it even gets to it’s hunting grounds--” The Bronze, they both guess “--But I may not be able to sense it at all until it begins to feed, or we may need the chaos of it’s feeding to tell us the location.”

“Well then,” Rupert sighs, setting the book aside and glancing around his apartment. “Shall we prepare? It’s nearly noon, we have several hours to prepare and stake out the Bronze before sunset.”

* * *

 

Rupert and Casey sit in the upper levels of the Bronze. It’s early for the club, not many people have arrived yet, having barely passed sunset. Casey is picking apart a muffin with her fingers and eating each crumb as she goes. Blueberry poppy seed, Rupert notes-- an unpleasantly sweet combination which is perhaps the reason for her measured intake. Or perhaps she simply enjoys taking the time to truly experience the textures and flavors of her food.

It had been quick preparing before heading to the Bronze. Rupert, knowing the girl’s affinity for knives, had offered her full access to his weapons collection. She’d not replaced her two tiny sleeve knives, but had instead supplemented them with two longer stiletto daggers. He’d also seen her eyeing the swords, but she hadn’t attempted to take any. Perhaps for the best, if they wanted to remain unnoticed.

Rupert had made the uncomfortable discovery that the clothes Casey is wearing-- ripped baggy jeans, a T-shirt, a flannel, and an enormous men’s leather jacket-- is everything she owns. The jacket has many inner pockets, she’d shown him, stuffed with healing herbs, baggies of money, granola bars, rocks, feathers, and other knick knacks. The only weapons she carries are her two little knives, and a handful of the sheaths she carved to go with them. She’d also demonstrated to him how she could carry objects strapped close to her body, either under her arms, in the small of her back, or directly beneath her bust; places where a little extra bulk would go completely unnoticed, especially under all her layers. Rupert is sure she’s stolen many things that way in the past, although she’d explained the tactic to him in the context of covertly bringing vampire-hunting supplies. He’d determined that not only is she badly in need of a new wardrobe-- or at the very least, a single change of clothes-- she’s also in need of every enormous meal he can possibly feed her. No grown adult should be as small as she is.

Rupert isn’t used to such a minimalistic fighter, though. Casey seems perfectly content to have two relatively small knives, and two even tinier ones just in case. With her size Rupert would have felt more at ease arming her with a crossbow or other ranged weapon, although he knows logically she's more than strong enough to take any opponent head-on. She had declined any kind of body armor, cross, or holy water, saying vaguely that she had what she needed. Rupert would just have to do his best to trust her.

His confidence had been somewhat revived when they’d gone to the Bronze. The first thing Casey had done, after quickly and surreptitiously scanning the environment, had been to find the Bronze’s back door. There, she’d rigged the door so that even locked, a strong slam from a man-- or herself-- could easily pop the door open. It was a temporary measure, she’d explained to him as she’d set it up. Just for tonight. She couldn’t do the same to the front door, because her magic was not strong enough to hide her tampering with a door directly in front of the bouncer, but even one escape route set up is better than none.

As the Bronze starts to populate, Casey cleans away the remnants of her muffin and pulls Rupert from their seat. Together they melt into the deepest shadows of the second floor of the Bronze, Casey’s magic dancing over them and giving passers-by the impression that there’s nothing even slightly interesting about their specific patch of shadow; it’s so uninteresting in fact that it doesn't even warrant a passing glance. There is no evidence that they have been there, other than the sabotaged back door which Casey is confident will not be noticed until it’s too late for the vampires to fix.

Rupert leans down towards Casey, who stands in front of him with less than a breath of air between them. He speaks directly into her ear, unsure whether her spell will work with sound and not willing to risk it.

“Can you sense it?”

She turns her face towards him, far closer than he would normally allow, and whispers with barely moving lips, “No. Nothing y--”

She freezes. More than freezes, Rupert suddenly finds himself hiding with what could easily be a marble statue. He doesn’t know how a human can be that still and his hands raise to cup her elbows on instinct from where she keeps her arms crossed. “What?”

“They’re coming,” She breaths, so incredibly still except for her lips. Her eyes are distant as she reads the energies. “Six….. The boy is with them….. Most are a few hundred years old, one is nearly five hundred and feels--” She shivers involuntarily. “I think he’s the one.”

Rupert grips her upper arms for a moment, unsure who exactly he’s steadying. There’s no turning back now. She’s back to a more human version of stillness, and looks up over her shoulder at him in the dark. He holds her gaze for a moment. Such big, sweet eyes for the most terrifying monster killer in the world.

She uncrosses her arms and rolls her shoulders, and Rupert takes the hint as her jacket slides off into his hands. Her flannel follows-- anything that could be easily be tangled or grabbed needs to go. Her hands open and close on her trusty little knives, reassurance of their presence, before tapping over the two larger knives strapped to her hips and the little wooden sheaths in the pockets of her jeans. It’s go time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times did I use "meticulous" to describe Giles? Many. Many times.


	4. The Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey dispatches the Vessel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JHGFDGFHGJHKJHJHGD CUDDLE TIME WHOOPS

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“They’re coming,” She breaths, so incredibly still except for her lips. Her eyes are distant as she reads the energies. “Six….. The boy is with them….. Most are a few hundred years old, one is nearly five hundred and feels--” She shivers involuntarily. “I think he’s the one.”_

_Rupert grips her upper arms for a moment, unsure who exactly he’s steadying. There’s no turning back now. She’s back to a more human version of stillness, and looks up over her shoulder at him in the dark. He holds her gaze for a moment. Such big, sweet eyes for the most terrifying monster killer in the world._

_She uncrosses her arms and rolls her shoulders, and Rupert takes the hint as her jacket slides off into his hands. Her flannel follows-- anything that could be easily be tangled or grabbed needs to go. Her hands open and close on her trusty little knives, reassurance of their presence, before tapping over the two larger knives strapped to her hips and the little wooden sheaths in the pockets of her jeans. It’s go time._

* * *

 

_Friday, Fifth of September, 1997_

_Casey_

 

Casey can’t help but cringe backwards away from the chorus of screams. Loud noises make their brain go funny, and even though they’re aware of pressing back into the man behind them they can’t stop the movement. His hands raise automatically to Casey’s arms, but Casey shakes their head and shuffles a bit forward, breaking the contact and their automatic brain malfunction. They listen intently to the chaos below; the target vampire grandstanding, more screams, the gleeful energies of the other vamps. The denim vampire-- the boy just recently turned-- seems demur by comparison. His energy is too young to be aligned with a cause like the other vampires are; he’s here playing along, with an agenda of his own.

The vampires herd the humans of the Bronze down to the main floor. One, a male barely twenty years turned from his energy, stays on the second floor to man the spotlight. Sure that he’s alone, Casey creeps out from their hiding place, gesturing for their companion to stay put, and swiftly dusts the vamp from behind. They wave quickly for the Watcher to join them before fishing a new sheath from their pocket and recapping the knife.

“Man the spotlight in this guy’s place,” Casey says in a low voice, flicking a finger to the pile of ashes. “I’ll get to work.”

After focusing a moment and weaving a strong nothing-to-see-here ward in front of the Watcher, Casey ghosts quickly down the stairs to the main floor of the Bronze, pulling that same familiar energy around themself. They dust one vampire immediately upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, then step through the falling ashes as they resheath their knife to avoid a telltale pile. Another vamp is taken from behind as he tries to herd a human towards the stage; Casey steps through his ashes as well, resheathes, moves on. The denim vampire is also to the side with a human, but Casey sees a deep red clouding his blue; he’s going to eat that girl himself. They pluck an empty sheath from their pocket and throw it; the denim vampire dissolves into ashes with no falling knife clatter to draw attention.

There’s two vampires left on the other side of the room, and the Vessel onstage. Casey hurries around the back and dusts one vamp as he turns to find a new human to grab; but even as they resheath and step through his ashes the last vampire is handing the Bronze’s struggling bouncer to the Vessel. _Shit._

Casey turns their body to the crowd, cups their hands around their mouth, and with their best projection booms, “Run for the back door! Hurry!”

The humans turn and stampede, and in the chaos Casey rushes toward the stage. The last vampire goon is looking around in lost confusion, at a loss to find her comrades. A thrown knife takes her down immediately. The Vessel, still holding the bouncer in a headlock, is looking around in confusion. His eyes slowly lock onto Casey as they run towards the stage.

“Ahaahh,” He chuckles, releasing and shoving the bouncer aside. “A volunteer, have we?”

He steps forward. Casey, with a clear shot at his chest now the bouncer is out of the way, throws their last wood-sheathed knife. It embeds in the Vessel’s chest and he looks down, stumbling back in shock and pain-- but Casey knows he’s too old to be affected by such a small amount of wood. Which is why they’re already leaping onto the stage with stiletto daggers drawn.

The Vessel looks up and takes a step forward in glee, but Casey has already dropped into an iron broom kick-- a spinning sweep which knocks the Vessel’s legs out from under him. As he falls, Casey brings one of their knives in a slashing arc upwards.

The blade slices straight through the Vessel’s neck as he falls.

The Vessel explodes into ash, Casey’s little knife falling to the stage. Casey, off balance from the kick and subsequent violent upswing, falls to one knee. The Bronze is empty-- all the humans have escaped.

Casey can hear their companion hurrying down the stairs as they kneel on the stage. Major fights like this are not common for them, and direct confrontations are their least favorite type. They hadn’t thought while doing it, taken over by confident instinct, but looking back on their actions now fear claws up the inside of Casey’s chest.

The man has reached the edge of the stage behind them, a bit out of breath.

“Th-that was-- remarkable-- are you hurt?”

“No,” Casey manages faintly. They’re not tired in a physical way, but their heart pounds with adrenaline and fear.

“You-- I’m--” He can’t seem to string his words together. “W-well we can talk about it later, I suppose. We’d best vacate the premise before the police turn up.”

“Yeah,” Casey says. They lean forward to retrieve their knife from the Vessel’s ashes.

* * *

 

By the time Casey is back on the man’s couch, they’ve managed to steady their heart. The man returns from the kitchen with tea, which Casey accepts blindly as he sits next to them.

“That was remarkable,” He starts gently, obviously referring to the fight although he seems mindful of Casey’s less-than-present state, examining their face carefully.

“You said that before,” Casey mutters, sipping their tea in avoidance.

“Well-- yes, I did.” He seems hesitant for a moment, then sets his tea on top of a book on the coffee table and turns to face Casey in earnest. “Casey, I cannot fathom the life you must have had, to be so readily prepared to take on the duties of a Slayer. That encounter was, by all rights, an extremely dangerous event-- and you handled it flawlessly. You knew exactly the weapons you would need, took no chances and lost no civilians to the vampires. I would be inclined to say you didn’t even utilize your powers as a Slayer-- the methods you used could quite possibly have been pulled off by a sufficiently prepared human. I-I can’t-- I can’t imagine how you could be so prepared.”

As he speaks, Casey finds themself lowering the tea to rest in their lap. Lethargy floods their body, and they lower their face as he compliments them. Deep seated, deeply buried tears fall unwelcome into their tea.

The man falters. Casey can tell he has no idea what’s happening, why they might be crying. He makes a noise of uncertainty, one hand hovering as he considers whether or how to offer comfort.

They can’t move. Not to put aside their tea, not to hide their face or dash away the tears like they want to. They lock down every muscle, falling into that practiced, unnatural stillness in the vain hope that it will somehow stem a complete breakdown. Even if it never actually does.

“Casey?” He inquires weakly.

A sob-- choked and aborted, and a tremor in their hands nearly sloshes Casey’s tea. The man takes the cup from their hands swiftly and sets it next to his own, then takes their hands in his. His hands are so big, compared to Casey’s. Calloused from weapons training, deeply set palm lines from a long hard life-- and, Casey notes with a flutter of relief behind their misery, very long and distinct life lines. And they’re warm, so so warm while Casey’s hands are always cold.

“Casey,” He breathes, leaning forward to peer into their downturned face. “You’re safe, child, the fight is done. Everyone is alright.”

Casey scrunches up their face as the tears begin to flow more freely, shaking their head-- denying the cause of their upset, denying their upset itself. Tears splatter onto their joined hands.

He sighs, very quietly, and one hand leaves theirs to touch, extraordinarily gently, the outer edge of their cheek. Casey turns their face into his hand, almost past thinking-- his palm covers their whole cheek easily, warm and calming and-- _n-no, nothing is safe..._ He lets them hide for a moment before slowly maneuvering their face up toward his.

“I cannot help you if you can’t tell me what’s wrong,” He says quietly.

Another sob, still contained and silent, rocks Casey’s whole body. They let the movement carry them forward to hide their face in his neck. It’s too overwhelming, right now. They just need the comfort.

“Alright,” He whispers, and gathers Casey into his arms. “Alright.”

* * *

 

_Saturday, Sixth of September, 1997_

 

Casey wakes up to darkness, feeling warmer and more comfortable and more at ease than they have in…. They can’t remember. The apartment is very still around them, unlit and peaceful. They can hear steady breathing sounds inches above their head, each breath ruffling strands of their hair.

They can’t fully remember what happened-- don’t want to. They had cried and cried and cried onto their Watcher, soaked his shirt, and he had held them and soothed them and asked no more questions. Eventually, he had wrapped them in a blanket and gotten up to turn off all the lights, before sliding onto the couch with them and pulling them to his chest. Casey had fallen asleep tucked between his body and the back of the couch, safely ensconced in the comforting dark.

Casey isn’t sure how long they lay there, comfortably blind and trying very hard not to think about his chest beneath their hand, but after what could be two minutes or twenty his breathing changes. He shifts the tiniest bit, the hand that had fallen slack over their side caresses their back, confirming they’re still there. He heaves a stuttering sigh and Casey begins tracing a random pattern on his chest so he’s aware they’re awake.

Neither of them say anything. Casey idly wonders what time it is before their soul becomes heavy again with the memories of the fight. They wiggle closer to their Watcher, hugging him and pressing their face into his chest.

The hand on their back comes up to their side, and he leans away a little, searching for Casey’s face even though neither can see in the darkness. Casey releases their hug, but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Casey whispers.

“Whatever for?” His voice is so deep, this close to his chest.

Casey isn’t sure what for. For crying on him? For needing comfort? They shake their head.

“Casey,” He admonishes gently, finally succeeding in pulling Casey away from him enough to ‘look’ at their face. Casey wiggles up the couch so they can be eye to eye, and when he speaks again his breath dances across their lips. “Please.”

It’s such a simple plea. Only one word, but Casey closes their eyes against it. They lean their head forward, seeking contact. Forehead to forehead.

They can't help but be honest.

“For a long time,” Casey begins, barely above a whisper. “I was always told there was something wrong with me. Never considerate enough, never clean enough, never smart enough, never--” They stop. Start again. “And I took it to heart. Hard not to, for a kid that age. Hearing it every day, I-I believed it. There was never anything I was good at.

“I started martial arts when I was…. Eleven, maybe, I can’t remember. And I loved it. For the first time in my life I was a natural at something, the teachers rarely corrected me, they used me as examples for the lower belts and as opponents for the upper belts. I was doing so well-- it was hard, but I felt like myself. I felt strong, and capable, and special. A-and then…

“Because-- Because I wasn’t smart enough, my mother made me quit. She thought I had too many extracurriculars and that’s why my grades were so low. And it felt like a personal attack. I went to high school, and my grades didn’t get better. I was the bad kid, the rebel-- I didn’t ever skip class or vandalize the school or anything, I _tried_ so hard, but I was never good enough. She screamed at me nearly every day. Almost every teacher hated me-- no matter how hard I tried, I could never do well. Sometimes it even seemed like the harder I tried the worse grade I got. And so at sixteen….. I quit. I dropped out. I was failing too many classes and I kept getting in arguments with the teachers and my parents were just…. Done. Done with me, done with my attitude, done with my _failing.”_

They pause, for a moment, and whisper faintly, “I always fail.”

A beat of silence. They can feel him breathing steadily, listening. Casey takes deep breath.

“They kicked me out. My mother screamed at me and my father was so disappointed and my little sister was so betrayed. They screamed at me to get out of their house so I ran to my room and I grabbed a handful of things and I left.

“I’ve been alone ever since. I’d been planning to run away since I was like eight, but somehow the reality of it was different than I’d expected. No one came for me, to take me back home. No one even bothered to look at me. I always found food, a place to hide, a place to sleep. My first vampire was just as lost as I was and so easy to kill. I had all the access I could want to books at public libraries, so in the daytimes I stayed there and read.

“I read a lot. Anything I could get my hands on; mythology, history, botany, survival. At first I stayed put in my hometown, sort of hoping someone would come for me. No one ever did. So I started travelling around, making wider and wider sweeps each night. I told myself I was just looking for new places to hide, new places to sleep, but really I was clearing my path away from where I used to live. By the time I was nineteen I was in rough shape… really, really bad shape. But I was surviving.

“A-and then… the powers came. I think it must have been painful, but so painful I wasn’t capable of processing it as pain. It was like being incinerated in an instant in the whitest fires of Hell, and then I came back to myself on the ground in the rain, and I was different. The things that had hurt before still hurt, but I could see perfectly clearly. I felt strong even though I was badly malnourished. My legs no longer shook and gave out beneath me. The first vampire I encountered set off a burning inside me, some sort of... _Primal_ need to eradicate it from the known universe. I’d never felt that way before, about anything.

“That need brought me here. It took a while, but the closer I drew as I travelled down the coast the more strongly I felt that this was where I needed to be. I was stronger and faster and _surer_ than I had ever been before-- suddenly, I was able to do all the things I had dreamed of being able to do. And for the first time in my life, I had a reason to keep trying.”

Casey pauses, staring blindly into what would have been the Watcher man’s eyes, if there had been any light to see them by. Their heart is pounding.

“Last night was the first time anyone has ever told me that what I did was… exemplary. More than right. That I had done exactly as I should have with no direction, that something about me was _right_ somehow by default. I-I’ve spent my whole life just knowing by default that I’m wrong, that I’m bad, that I can never do good. And you just--”

Their eyes burn so Casey stops talking. They’ve cried far too much already, they will not start again.

He gives the slightest of nods, Casey can feel it where their foreheads touch, and he presses his closer to theirs.

“I understand,” he says quietly. “I--” He huffs a single, self deprecating laugh. “I understand.”

And that’s more than enough. Casey closes their eyes and the two just stay there, in the dark, in…… safety.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times did I use the word "gently"...………….. Jesus XD


	5. One Girl in All the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey and Rupert go shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rupert's caught feeeeeeelingssssss~~~~

PREVIOUSLY

 

_Their eyes burn so Casey stops talking. They’ve cried far too much already, they will not start again._

_He gives the slightest of nods, Casey can feel it where their foreheads touch, and he presses his closer to theirs._

_“I understand,” he says quietly. “I--” He huffs a single, self deprecating laugh. “I understand.”_

_And that’s more than enough. Casey closes their eyes and the two just stay there, in the dark, in…… safety._

* * *

 

_Saturday, Sixth of September, 1997_

_Rupert Giles_

 

Rupert isn’t sure how long they lay together, silent, she drawing comfort from his presence and he simply existing. Her story strikes a chord in him, reminds him of the person he’d been years ago.

He isn’t entirely sure what to think of this Slayer. It’s clear to him they have very much in common-- perhaps, all things considered, too much in common. He feels an admiration for her he hadn’t been expecting. They could bond over so many things, even if those things are rather horrible. He’s certain now she’s a kindred spirit.

And she’s….. Not as young as he had been expecting to have to deal with. A teenager, that’s a trial-- and while technically Rupert supposes he is still old enough to be her father, this girl doesn’t _feel_ like a girl. She feels like an adult. She feels formidable, settled, extremely gifted regardless of her Slayer status…. He shies away from what else she might feel like. In his training to be a Watcher Rupert had expected to have to maintain a very professional, relatively unpleasant relationship with his Slayer. _This_ relationship seems to be heading towards something very different.

He could very well be fired, Rupert knows, for entertaining such ideas. Slayers are traditionally supposed to be raised to be killing machines-- no hugs and crying after a big kill. With a younger girl Rupert is sure he would have been able to maintain at least a little of the recommended distance, but Casey is so easy to touch. And she’s already ‘raised’-- far older than a Slayer has any right to be, and almost entirely trained on her own to boot. The fact that she raised and trained herself is irrelevant.

Rupert can easily see this being less of a soldier/mentor relationship and more of a partnership of relative equals, but in order for that to be so he’ll need to call in some serious favors with the Watcher’s Council.

Casey nuzzles closer to him until their noses touch, and Rupert’s heart skips a beat.

He will call in all his favors, if need be.

They stay there together until the sun has fully risen, and Rupert is finally able to see a little. He’s starting to get restless, not one to stay in bed for long periods of time, and Casey’s lips curl into a smirk. Is he fidgeting? Her eyes crack open, heavily lidded in contentment, and Rupert nearly dies. Her eyes aren’t truly green-- she has central heterochromia, and the centers of her eyes around the pupil are bright yellow. _She must have had horrendous eyesight, before,_ he thinks absently. Still smirking, her eyes flicker between his, lingering on his left eye for a moment and taking in his own sectoral heterochromia-- bright green with a splash of brown-- before flicking to his lips and then back to his eyes.

_My lips? Is she--? --N-no, never mind._

“Morning person, are we?” She says-- _Purrs,_ Rupert thinks somewhat bitterly. She has no right to sound like that this early in the morning, he hasn’t even had his tea yet, the minx.

“I admit I am an early riser,” he responds quietly.

She grins-- her smile really is very lopsided, he notes-- and stretches like a cat against him. He has to lean forward into her to avoid toppling backwards off the couch, and Rupert wonders if she has any idea what _exactly_ she’s doing.

“You should get up then,” she says, fully smiling now as her eyes examine his face.

“Mm.”

He has to take a moment to stare at her before he can force himself to move away. His apartment isn’t cold, but it feels shockingly cool compared to the Slayer’s heat against him, and goose pimples break over his skin as he carefully sits up. Casey smirks and hums and curls into the warm dip in the leather as he vacates it, and when Rupert has stood up he makes sure the blanket is covering her adequately.

“Not a morning person?” He asks lightly, and she shakes her head with her eyes closed.

“Night person,” she purrs. “I’m nocturnal.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. A nocturnal Slayer, wide awake at the times her prey are most active. Phenomenal.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” He says, watching as she starts to drift off again. “Would you like anything?”

She mumbles something unintelligible, flapping a hand at him. He snorts, and taking their mostly untouched teas with him to the kitchen, begins to cook.

By the time he’s finished cooking-- more eggs and toast, he’s really not that original-- Rupert can tell the Slayer is awake. She hasn’t moved from the couch, but he can sense her awareness as if it fills up the room. Eventually she pushes herself up and looks around with sleepy, catlike eyes. He raises his eyebrows when she looks over the back of the couch to him.

“Um…” She starts uncertainty, then seems to change her mind. “Bathroom?”

“Through my bedroom,” He says, gesturing with his spatula.

She nods, pauses for a moment, then nods again and pads silently into his room. Rupert plates up the food and begins to clear off the coffee table as he listens to the water in the sink run, and hears… is she brushing her teeth? She wouldn’t steal _his_ toothbrush, would she? Rupert isn’t sure how he feels about that idea. He’s not as scrupulous with oral health as he is with his dishes, despite that one might think they would be closely related. He’s not exactly disgusted by the thought of her using his toothbrush, but it is…. Extremely intimate. When she comes out of his room, he can’t help looking at her quizzically, and she gives him a huge smile and pats her jacket.

“I have my own, silly.”

Oh. Of course. He’s definitely not disappointed. Not at all. He excuses himself to freshen up as she kneels in front of the coffee table with the food, and indeed his toothbrush is dry. She did use his toothpaste, though. _So she’ll taste like me, then._ Rupert jerks himself violently away from that thought and gets ready for the day.

When he’s returned, it appears Casey is already on her second plate. But his is sitting next to her on the table, already filled with the same portions he’d taken the day before. Rupert feels by now he really shouldn’t be shocked that she pays so much attention.

They eat together in companionable silence, and again the Slayer does her little swaying dance in place as she eats. Rupert can’t fathom why except that she just genuinely enjoys eating. _Which I suppose, after living with so little food for so long, is perfectly understandable._ He resolves to take her shopping, both so she can have clothes that actually fit her, and so that she can have a say as to what food she eats. If she takes so much joy in eating, she ought to be allowed to eat things that make her even happier.

 _It’s official,_ Rupert thinks to himself. _I am irredeemably a sap._

This time, when the meal is done, the Slayer takes the dishes almost by force and hip-checks him out of the way when he approaches the sink. Rupert can’t help but hover, but Casey continues on in affected ignorance as she washes the dishes with even more care than he usually does. She sets the water to the hottest setting, rinses the sponge until the water runs clear, then rinses each dish until they’re visually clean. Then she soaps and scrubs everything, rinses again, and checks with her fingertips for any invisible residue. Then she gives a _second_ quick wash, rinses twice thoroughly, and sets them on the rack to dry. She turns to Rupert as she towels off her hands, with a coy little expression halfway between a pout and a smirk.

“Are they up to your standards?”

“Far beyond,” He manages, a bit speechless.

She smiles and flounces out of his kitchen.

“Uh, Casey,” He manages, following her out and leaning over the back of the couch where she’s perched. “I was thinking we might… go shopping.”

Casey’s face drops into a blank expression immediately, but Rupert can see her fingers playing nervously with the edge of her jacket.

“I-it’s traditionally the Watcher’s duty to support the Slayer financially, as ordinarily the Slayer is a minor and obviously cannot have a day job what with her duties. My salary more than allows this, i-if you will allow me,” He says.

She looks down at her hands, playing with her fingers quietly for a moment.

“I’m not a minor,” is what she eventually says.

“No,” he agrees. “Which makes this slightly irregular. However, the logic still stands. You cannot have a day job with your Slayer duties-- especially considering you’re such a night owl. I am paid more than enough to support the both of us, and even if I wasn’t I still have more than enough money to do so. Traditionally you would essentially become my ward; I would house you, feed you, clothe you. School you myself. As you are an adult, obviously you cannot be my ward in the legal sense. But a Watcher’s duty still applies.”

She nods. Rupert can tell she still has some reservations, but she doesn’t air them. “So what did you have in mind?”

\---

Casey trails well behind him as he leads the way into the clothing store. She looks faintly ill, he thinks, staring at the women’s clothes as if they’re going to burn her if she touches them. Rupert stops in front of the displays and looks back at her, waiting for her to draw near. She stops a few feet back.

“Casey, I cannot dress you myself,” He says archly. “Unless you hadn’t noticed, I am a forty-three year old man rather fond of tweed, I sincerely doubt you would approve of my fashion sense.”

She makes a small noise which might be agreement, but it’s considerably higher pitched than normal. Rupert sighs.

“What, Casey?”

“W-- It’s just--” She wrings her hands together, looking wide-eyed at the clothes. “I don’t-- I-I mean it’s not-- Uhh--”

Rupert turns and walks back to her, taking her hands in his to stop her from bruising herself. She seems shocked to suddenly find his chest directly in her line of vision and looks up at his face with big, round eyes.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” He says gently, an echo of his words last night. Casey absorbs them and squeezes his hands tightly-- or tightly for him, he realizes. She’s likely being extremely gentle by her own standards. Then she nods a few times, looking sightlessly through his chest.

“I d-don’t think I’d mind your fashion sense as much as you think,” She says, and she looks towards the men’s section of the store.

\---

To be honest, she’s right. Rupert tries to stay mindful of how he would have dressed at her age, but in addition to the jeans and T-shirts and flannels they choose, Casey also keeps bringing back dapper sweaters and chinos. She looks longingly at the blazers but both she and Rupert know none of them are in her size; she’s very small. The colors she chooses are all muted, grey and black and dark green and red. She models the clothes very self consciously, although Rupert isn’t sure if it’s because she’s unused to the clothes or the attention, but he has to admit that in well-fitting clothes Casey makes a striking, if rather androgynous, figure. Casey also insists on leather boots and a pair of men’s dress shoes, and Rupert has to nearly physically force her to choose underwear. Reluctantly, she snatches a pack of black boxer briefs, and stomps out of the aisle.

It’s another battle and a half to get her into the women’s sports section. Rupert is well aware of the ins and outs of a woman’s body-- all Slayers are women, after all, and as such all Watchers must be capable of raising them properly. He knows that she will need at least some kind of support, although the face she makes at the brassieres leaves him unsurprised when she only turns up two black sports bras. She flat out refuses any kind of form-fitted exercising clothes, however, and grumpily adds a pair of men’s joggers to their collection.

Once the clothes are bagged and paid for, Rupert pulls her to the convenience store next. She makes a most comical face when he leads her to the aisle with sanitary products, and he almost wonders if she’ll actually run away. She steps into the aisle as if she’s in a jungle, and at any second a box of wild sanitary napkins could jump out and accost her. It takes a lot of gentle prodding for her to admit she prefers tampons, although at this point she is nearly hiding.

Rupert decides that’s enough torturing the Slayer for one day. He takes her out for a quick lunch and then they hit the grocery store, where he tells her to go wild. She comes back with three different kinds of hot sauce, and claims that she needs them all.

Casey is actually a bit of a chatterbox, Rupert finds, as he trails behind her through the grocery as she picks out foods. She talks about everything, and she does so at a clip, her words tumbling so quickly Rupert has to concentrate on listening to follow properly. She explains in depth that she used to be unable to eat a great deal of foods, although her activation as Slayer had ended her gastrointestinal issues. She describes the food she grew up with, food which to Rupert seems fairly exotic but which to Casey was simply normal-- she blames her Father’s family for her exacting hot sauce needs. She also, at random intervals and sometimes even in the middle of sentences, makes strange exclamations such as “oh look, apples!” or “that looks interesting.” Rupert thanks his lucky stars that their roles are not reversed; had Casey been a Watcher, her poor Slayer would likely be left in the dust in seconds.

They finish up by two in the afternoon, and Casey is back to bouncing and humming tunelessly as Rupert drives them back to his apartment. She seems to greatly enjoy grocery shopping, for some unfathomable reason, but Rupert is still thinking about her reactions to the shopping previous. That inkling he had had, that suspicion of a suspicion as to why no one had been able to find the Slayer….. It was starting to take better form.

“Casey,” He says suddenly, interrupting her humming as he stares fixedly at the road. She turns to look at him obligingly. “What precisely is it about women’s clothes that you so dislike?”

She stops bouncing, stops humming, and sits and stares at him in silence. Rupert waits, not sure what to say to push for an enlightening answer and not sure pushing is the right tactic to get her to talk anyways. After a moment she sits back in her seat, looking introspectively at the dash.

“I’ve always disliked them,” She says quietly, in a tone Rupert suspects means she’s not quite sure of what she’s saying. “I only wore dresses and things when I had to, as a kid, and as I grew up pants and more boyish clothes just seemed more practical. And then I was on the streets, and you just wear whatever you can get.”

He hums, taps his fingers on the steering wheel. Casey seems to know his question wasn’t motivated by curiosity, and continues to stare at the dash.

“Casey,” He says again. “What is the name your parents gave you?”

She freezes, and looks at him with wide eyes.

“I won’t repeat it to anyone,” Rupert reassures her quickly. “It’s of no importance anymore. But…”

He can see her thinking, calculating, the way she did the first time he asked her her name. Vaguely, he wonders how many names she’s gone by in her years.

“I used to be called Elizabeth,” She says finally.

Not ‘my name was,’ not ‘my parents named me.’ She rejects both with the phrasing of her statement. _Elizabeth._ Rupert glances at her critically, and can’t quite see how she could fit such a name. She huffs a little laugh, and looks down at her knees.

“I don’t really have a name,” She says, as if she’s insulting herself. “I just use the first thing that comes to mind with whoever asks, so long as it’s not… _That_ girly.” Her lip curls.

Rupert can’t stop himself from reaching over to take her hand. She clasps his between both her hands, curling towards him in her seat.

“Does it bother you, being a girl?”

She traces the veins on the back of his hand with her thumb quietly. They drive in silence for a long while, and Rupert lets her think. He thinks he knows, now, why the spells to locate ‘the one girl in all the world with the power to stop the forces of darkness’ didn’t work. Spells are specific. You can’t ask them to do a catch-all search.

“Yes,” She whispers.

You can’t ask them to find a girl who isn’t a girl.


	6. Full Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert tries to get Casey to try a different hunting style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write the stuttering in this the way I stutter. Because I do stutter. A lot.
> 
> TW for mentions of violence against animals

PREVIOUSLY

 

_Rupert can’t stop himself from reaching over to take her hand. She clasps his between both her hands, curling towards him in her seat._

_“Does it bother you, being a girl?”_

_She traces the veins on the back of his hand with her thumb quietly. They drive in silence for a long while, and Rupert lets her think. He thinks he knows, now, why the spells to locate ‘the one girl in all the world with the power to stop the forces of darkness’ didn’t work. Spells are specific. You can’t ask them to do a catch-all search._

_“Yes,” She whispers._

_You can’t ask them to find a girl who isn’t a girl._

* * *

 

_Saturday, Sixth of September, 1997_

_Casey_

 

There’s no more talking the rest of the way home. Casey isn’t sure they’d know what to say even if there was. When they arrive Casey takes the heavier food bags, while the Watcher takes the clothes. He seems at a loss for where to put them, turning this way and that before bringing them into his bedroom.

Casey restocks the fridge in thoughtful silence.

_”Does it bother you, being a girl?”_

It’s something they’d had a lot of time to think about, alone for all those years. Truthfully, it had been one facet of why Casey’s parents had been so….. Harsh, with them, back then. At fourteen Casey had finally realized that whatever they were, it was not a girl. They could not be the pretty little Lizzie their Mother had tried to raise. They had failed to conform to the ideal daughter, and had deprived their parents of a daughter they could be proud of.

Casey hadn’t been expecting the older man to ask about something like that. Most people don’t think of it, or else think of it badly. And he’s only a little bit younger than their parents. Surely he would be very conservative like them.

And yet he’d seemed to have guessed before he even asked, and was only asking to confirm his suspicions. If that was the case, why was he allowing Casey the liberties they had been taking? Taking their hands, willingly and in public, of his own accord? If he suspected Casey was not a woman, why would he be willing to touch them? To sleep pressed up against them all night?

Casey doesn’t really want to think about it. It’s too much, all at once, and a small part of them is worried that he has something in mind Casey won’t like. Men often do.

Casey comes out of their mind with a shock when they realize all the groceries were put away. The Watcher stands in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watches Casey. They’d been so wrapped up in their head they hadn’t even heard him approach-- extremely rare, for someone as paranoid as them.

“I-I think there are a few things we need to talk about,” He says quietly.

Casey nods and follows him to the couch, but decides to bite the first bullet before he gets himself worried about more important things.

“Um” Begins Casey, to get his attention. “I’ve kind of been wondering….. What do I call you?”

He blinks for a second, evidently caught off guard, before he actually considers the question.

“Well….. Ordinarily I would ask that you use my last name. But ordinary is rather far from this situation.” He turns to face them on the couch, looking worried. “I don’t see you as a child, Casey, or as my ward, not as such. You are my responsibility, in the sense that I must help to prepare you, and handle things for you that you cannot do such as extensive research, paperwork, finances. Things your duties do not allow you time to handle yourself. But in a way I am also _your_ responsibility, in the same way that everyone is your responsibility. A Slayer must have a Watcher, and while I can be replaced it is generally more prudent to try and not die.” He makes a face at his statement, but plows on. “I see us as equals, bordering on partners, even, which for people of our stations is irregular at best. Because of this, I would ask you to address me by my first name. I may have to fight with the Council to allow us a change in protocol, but I believe for you it is worth it. There is no point trying to treat you like a child, or like an untrained potential, when you are clearly neither. I feel it is better to meet you at your own level, so that together we can work to raise you even higher.”

Casey takes a deep breath and nods. Rupert, then.

“Now, there is…. Ah, there’s so much to cover. Firstly, so this is done and out of the way. What pronouns would you like me to use in reference to you?”

“I--” Casey’s brain sputters to a stop. They don’t use any pronouns for themself. Other people have always used female pronouns, and although Casey hates them they allow it because the alternative…. “I don’t know.”

“I have been using female pronouns, how does that make you feel?”

“I don’t like it,” Casey responds at once. “I’m not a girl. I don’t know what I am, but I’m not a girl, I don’t want to be treated like one.”

“Then I will use male pronouns,” He says, and leaves it at that.

“As for your duty as Slayer. There is much you don’t know, and one book for you to start with. It is called the Slayer’s Handbook, but I believe it is best used at the Slayer’s own discretion. I would like you to read it, all of it, and if there are any topics you believe need elaborating upon simply ask. I have a large collection of books on very many topics that I believe you will find interesting.”

“Now, as the world is no longer in peril….” He takes a deep breath and sits up a bit straighter. “I will not hove you sleeping on my couch, regardless of how capable you may be. As a Watcher and as a gentleman it’s simply unconscionable.”

“I’m not going to displace you from your bed,” Casey says.

“W--” He sighs. “Well there are a few options. The most obvious would be perhaps that a one-bedroom apartment is simply too small, and that we should acquire some other, roomier accommodations in Sunnydale.”

“That’s one option,” Agrees Casey, but they can already see where this is going. Rupert seems very nervous and fidgets with his sleeves.

“T-the other, option, well.”

“Why are you okay with touching me?” Interrupts Casey.

“I-- What?”

“You knew I wasn’t a girl from the start, I think. But you slept with me on the couch, you took my hand in public. Why would you do that if you already knew?”

His mouth opens and closes, and he shifts in his seat…. Shifts again…. Takes off his glasses and rubs between his eyes, looking a bit shocked. Casey waits patiently for him to settle, and eventually he tosses his glasses onto the coffee table and turns back to face them.

“This is not something that is to be repeated because it could easily get me fired,” He says quickly. Casey nods.

“Watchers are not supposed to be very close to their Slayer. I had been prepared for a distant relationship with a young girl, someone I was sure I would have nothing in common with and who I would not get along with. You…. Are quite the opposite. We are so similar and yet you are still so mysterious to me, a-and I find myself unable to fully draw myself away from you. I’m quite afraid I may be tempted to vastly overstep my bounds as a Watcher.”

Casey leans into the back of the couch, watching him confess. “Be blunt with me, Rupert. I’m not good at guessing.”

He sighs. “No, neither am I. Casey…. I will not say that I have ever been much a dating man. I-I-I generally prefer my books, a night in. I have never been able to play the role of ‘boyfriend’ very well and I find myself rather disenchanted with the thought of being a husband. But I find myself drawn to you. I cannot imagine being with you in the classical sense, but in other ways…. Working together closely. Spending time in after a long day. Hearing your stories and telling mine. That, I can see happening quite easily.”

“Hm,” Casey hums.

Rupert looks up at them with desperately sad green eyes. “I do not expect anything from you beyond your duty as the Slayer. You must understand that I will never push you for something you cannot do. A-and I understand that you are very young, that the idea of such an ill-defined relationship with a much older man could very well be… unpalatable, to you. But w-we must-- discuss this, so that we can move on with our lives in whichever direction is most prudent for the both of us.”

Casey chews on the inner edge of their lower lip and watches as Rupert’s eyes flicker down to watch, drawn by the motion, before he almost wrenches his gaze back up to their eyes. He’s so beseeching-- puppy dog eyes, Casey thinks, although they’re sure he doesn’t do it on purpose. Not a boyfriend or a husband, but a work partner, someone to come home to, a friend. That sounds very nice to Casey, but deep reservations still burn in their chest. They’ve had experiences with men before, and especially men as touch-oriented as Rupert seems to be tend to be... Unpleasant, later on. Casey slings one elbow over the back of the couch and leans forward to look into Rupert’s eyes intently.

“May I be uncomfortably blunt?” They ask.

“Well… Yes?” Answers Rupert, clearly uncomfortable.

“How physical do you plan on getting?”

His eyebrows shoot as far up his forehead as they can go. “I-- Well I hadn’t exactly thought-- It’s not as if I-- why are you asking?”

Casey snorts. Redirection. “Because you’re cuddly. And in my experience the cuddly guys also tend to be the grabby ones. Now I know you wouldn’t be an ass about it,” Casey says, holding up a hand to stop Rupert’s vehement denial, “but it needs to be said. You seem like the kind of guy who needs a lot of physical contact, and I’m….. not.”

“B-but you haven’t--” He stammers, brow knitting.

“You haven’t tried anything I didn’t want you to do. That little sleepover on the couch was intimate, yeah, but for me at least it was still innocent. I’m not into the kind of stuff most people are.”

“I-- I understand,” He says slowly, frowning in thought. “I-I-I-- Well I won’t deny that you…. Have an affect on me. But that can be handled without your involvement. I would never--” He can’t even seem to bring himself to say it. “--I-I would never.”

The reservations dim a little. No one can ever be trusted at their word, Casey knows, and even genuine horror at the prospect of forcing someone can cover the ability to do so. But Rupert doesn’t seem to be that kind of man, despite how little they know him, and he had had plenty of opportunities before to try something. His hands had always been gentle, respectful, and he had never once seemed to lose control of himself. He hadn’t even tried to kiss them, despite having had far more opportunities than most men were capable of passing up.

“I want to trust you,” Casey says honestly.

“But trust is hard,” Rupert finishes. “I know. I-I do not believe we need to…. Label, this, Casey. It may be better for the both of us to simply… go with the flow. Communicate, and take what comes. I am not the sort of man you seem to have had experiences with, but I know there is no way for you to be sure of this shy experiencing how exactly I may be yourself.”

He pauses, thinking hard. “The fact that you are the Slayer and I your Watcher is perhaps the most significant thing. Our responsibilities to each other and ultimately to the world. As long as that remains constant, nothing else needs to be set in stone.”

“Okay,” Casey agrees softly.

Rupert's face brightens immediately. “So, you will vacate the couch?”

Casey laughs and aims a very gentle swat at him.

\---

Casey had spent the rest of the afternoon buried nose deep in the Slayer’s Handbook. It answers many questions for Casey, and raises even more. Casey can’t stop themself from weaving theory after theory as they read, and by the time the sun is beginning to set they’ve finished the book. Rupert seems both impressed and slightly disturbed by how quickly they’d devoured it.

“What do you think?” He asks as they ready for the night’s hunt.

“It’s fascinating,” Casey launches immediately. “A good number of my theories were proven correct but of course that only leads to more questions and new theories. What exactly does the Watcher's Council do? I mean they only seem to accumulate extant knowledge rather than research it. Is there some kind of similar council or academy for witches? Is _anyone_ doing extensive research into the workings of the different dimension and the forces of magic? Clearly the Old Ones exist, although they’re far removed from us-- The Master’s plan seems to imply they’re simply one dimension over and could reemerge at any second. Why has nobody been able to contact or summon one before? Is the energetic requirement just too steep or is something actively keeping them away? How do the barriers between dimensions even work?”

Casey looks up to see Rupert has stopped moving and is staring at them with raised eyebrows.

“What?”

He shakes his head, opens his mouth, then closes it and shakes his head again. “I-I admit you ask some good questions, although certainly not questions the Council would find…. Appropriate.”

Casey snorts and closely examines the blade of one of their stiletto knives. “Controlling knowledge always ends badly.”

“So does seeking it imprudently.”

“I know that,” Casey snaps. “I’m not stupid. There are idiots out there who have no idea what they could be doing even though they’ve learned _how_ to do it. But I think keeping them in ignorance of the potential consequences of their actions will only lead to them doing it anyways, and probably dying as a result. In the long run more lives would be saved by making sure everyone is properly educated, so that if they do choose to pursue a dangerous line of inquiry they can take the proper precautions that ensure neither they nor anyone else ends up hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you, Casey,” Rupert says gently. “It’s very clear to me you’re not stupid, and I do believe in this case you’re also right.”

Casey shuffles and shrugs and buries themself in weapons checking. “‘Kay.”

They know they should apologize. They even want to. But they can’t help the sudden resentment, and fear he’ll hear it in their voice. A bitter apology would only make things worse, so they leave it at that.

“Are you ready?” Rupert asks.

“Yep, let’s go.”

\---

“Hm,” Rupert says, for the fourth time that night.

Casey turns from the falling vampire ash and give him an exasperated look. “What.”

“You have a very singular style of killing them,” Rupert remarks.

“Okay?”

“Can I ask you to try something?” He asks, sounding thoughtful.

“What do you want me to try?”

“I want you,” he begins as Casey walks back to him, “To kill the next one using only your Slayer powers.”

“Haven’t I been?” Casey asks, bemused. “I never would have been able to fight them this well before.”

“To be very honest, Casey, a healthy and well-trained human could easily kill vampires using your technique. You said yourself you were in rather frail shape before your awakening, it seems to me that although you may rely on the Slayer powers to keep your body in fighting shape, you don’t actually use them beyond that to _fight.”_

“What I want you to do,” He says, holding his hands out, “Is give me your weapons. All of them. And the next vampire we see, I want you to kill by hand.”

“But--”

Casey stops themself. They know, logically, that they are completely capable of killing a vampire without their weapons. But this is an old fear, a fear planted in them long before it was even relevant. Casey has kept a tight rein on their strength since they were a child-- they’re not sure they know how to let it go anymore.

“I don’t think I can,” Casey says, looking up at Rupert pleadingly.

“You can,” He assures them, gently taking the knife Casey is holding. “I believe in you.”

Reluctantly, Casey gives him their coat-- which contains most of their weapons-- as well as the two stiletto knives.

The next vampire they come across, Casey hesitates. It takes a shove in the back from Rupert to get them moving, but even as they automatically block the vampire’s moves and strike, they worry. By now the need to be gentle is an ingrained habit; even as they punch the vampire, they only hit just hard enough to affect it.

“I know you can hit harder than that, Casey!” Rupert yells from several feet back “Let him have it, come on!”

“I _cant!”_   Yells Casey, ducking under a punch and smashing up with their elbow to the vampire’s face. The vampire cries out and stumbles back-- that move hurts no matter how weakly you do it.

With a cry of despair, Casey kicks the vampire in the chest while he’s off balance-- as he stumbles back, spins and kicks him again-- advances with a butterfly kick to the face that takes him to the ground beneath a bush-- and then snaps a dead branch free and dusts him. All at less-than-full power.

“Let’s call it a night, I think,” Says Rupert quietly as he approaches the panting Slayer.

\---

Casey sits on the couch in Rupert’s apartment, clutching their mug of tea between cold hands. It’s their favorite, a lemon hibiscus blend, startlingly red in color and slightly tart. The steam curls up over their face, warm and friendly.

Rupert sits down slowly next to them.

“Why did you hold back?”

“I-I-- I-I--” Casey huffs and tries again. “I have to.”

“Why do you have to?” Rupert sounds so gentle, so curious, and he leans down to meet their eyes even though Casey won’t look at him.

“Because I’m a _fucking_ scatterbrain,” Hisses Casey into their tea. “If I don’t keep it tight under control I’ll fucking forget and then I’ll destroy something o-or I’ll h-- h-- _hurt_ someone and I can’t--”

“Casey,” He interrupts gently, setting his tea aside with one hand as the other touches Casey’s on their mug of tea. “You won’t hurt anyone.”

“I _will!”_ Casey cries, looking up at him desperately. “I couldn’t control my strength even before I had these powers and now I could kill you so easily--”

They hadn’t meant to say that.

“I-I could kill anyone, so easily. I could-- c-could crush a pu-- puppy, I could-- And I wouldn’t mean to! I’d just forge-- get that I’m as strong as I am and by then it’d be--”

“Stop, stop.” He takes the tea from their hands and sets it aside, moving closer to them on the couch, embracing them gently. “Take deep breaths, Casey, it’ll be alright.”

“It’s n-not,” Casey whimpers.

“I said it will be,” Rupert corrects quietly, leaning back and cupping Casey’s cheek with one hand. “I promise you it will be, Casey. Slayers have gone through this before, and as far as I know there haven’t been any accidental casualties due to unchecked strength. Injuries, yes, absolutely. But no one has died.”

“As far as you know,” points out Casey, pouting petulantly.

“Yes, as far as I know. I can look into it if you really want to know but Casey, it’s not relevant. You are an extremely careful and mindful person, I cannot imagine you losing control of your strength so easily.”

“But I could,” They whisper. “So easily.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Casey in misery and Rupert in quiet contemplation. He strokes their cheek with his thumb.

“Alright,” He says at length. “For now, your technique is more than sufficient to handle the vampires. I believe you have more finesse than you give yourself credit for, but since it’s not immediately necessary I won’t force you to keep fighting empty handed.”

“Thank you,” Casey breathes, sagging in relief.

Rupert smiles a little. “Now, shall we go to bed?”

“Wait I wanna finish my tea first,” Casey mumbles, extricating themself from Rupert’s hug and grabbing up their mug from the coffee table.

Rupert chuckles as they chug it down, coming up for air with a gasp.

“You won’t be taking the couch tonight, will you?”

They flash a narrow-eyed look at him.

“It’s bad for your back?” He offers.

“Just a little while longer,” Casey says. “I just need to get used to things for a while.”

Rupert sighs heavily. “Alright. I don’t suppose I can convince you to trade with me?”

Casey shoves him from the couch. “Good _night!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you say "uncomfortable?" I hate conversations like that *shudder*


	7. Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert finally wins his battle against the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEP

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“You won’t be taking the couch tonight, will you?”_

_They flash a narrow-eyed look at him._

_“It’s bad for your back?” He offers._

_“Just a little while longer,” Casey says. “I just need to get used to things for a while.”_

_Rupert sighs heavily. “Alright. I don’t suppose I can convince you to trade with me?”_

_Casey shoves him from the couch. “Good **night!”** _

* * *

 

_Tuesday, Ninth of September, 1997_

_Rupert Giles_

 

When Casey had said she-- _he,_ Rupert reminds himself-- needed to get used to things for a while, Rupert had hoped sh-- he’d meant a few days. But it’s been a few days, and Casey is still resolutely sleeping on the couch. What’s more, the handful of vampires they’d caught on Saturday seemed to have been the last of them. Sunday night had yielded one; Monday, none at all. Rupert is sure the quiet means trouble.

Casey also seems to be on edge, but not for the same reasons Rupert is. The younger man has been quiet with Rupert, not precisely avoidant but certainly not chatty either. Rupert can tell he has something on his mind.

Casey is a very strange case, to Rupert’s eye. Already trained to be a deadly fighter even without use of his Slayer powers, and simultaneously the most adult and most _lost_ individual Rupert has had the pleasure of meeting. There’s an age to the young man that Rupert knows well; many young Watchers in the Academy had had it also. It’s an age that speaks of terrible things, and although Rupert knows Casey will grow into it, right now that heaviness seems to be far more than the young man can bear.

Rupert isn’t sure what to do. He’s talked to the Council, and with Casey’s help convinced them that a change in strategy is necessary. Casey needs education, certainly, but not raising and training in the way Slayers usually do. What’s more, Casey had already been doing the job in a severely weakened state before his activation, which means there is no need for him to undergo the _Tento di Cruciamentum_ \-- He’d essentially already done it, several times over.

 _And is still doing it,_ Rupert thinks. He has no idea how to help Casey with whatever block the younger man has on his strength. Most young Slayers seem to regulate their strength naturally-- Casey, due to fear, is overregulating. Right now it’s not too much of an issue, but Rupert fears what it could lead to in the future, if Casey is too afraid of himself to save his own life.

A knock on the door. Rupert looks up in surprise, then glances at Casey, who is staring at him with her-- with _his_ calm Hunting Face on. A Vampire, then. It must be sundown.

“Should I get it?” Rupert asks quietly.

“I’ll get it,” Casey responds. “It’s that weird one.”

“The one you didn’t kill?”

“Mm.”

Casey makes his way to the door and opens it, leaning his shoulder into the edge. The man on the doorstep is tall-- Rupert can see his face clearly over the top of Casey’s head-- frighteningly pale, and extraordinarily handsome. A more obvious vampire Rupert has never seen in all his years. He can imagine Casey is raising his eyebrow at the man, who offers a small smirk.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you,” Casey drawls smoothly. Rupert wonders why his ‘uninterested and about to slam the door in your face’ voice is so sexy.

The vampire smirks a little more. “We were never properly introduced, I’m Angel.”

“As in Angelus?” Rupert interrupts. Angelus, the Scourge of Europe? ”Casey, he’s extremely dangerous, be careful.”

 _”Was_ extremely dangerous,” Angelus corrects. “Still am, to some people. But not to you. I’m here to help.”

Casey snorts. “Help with what? We haven’t seen a vampire in days.”

“They’ve gone to ground,” Angelus agrees. “After you dusted the Vessel like that, everyone’s been going crazy, trying to find a new plan. I heard you were quite the Slayer, huh? Not a single human casualty.”

“Yeah,” Casey says shortly, not accepting the compliment. “So what’s wrong with you?”

Rupert blinks. Wrong with… the vampire? Angelus seems shocked too, standing perfectly still.

“What did you say?” He asks eventually.

“What’s wrong with you? Your energy’s fucked, the demonic impulse is almost nowhere to be seen, and the energy itself almost completely transparent. Only humans have transparent energy, so; what’s wrong with you?”

Angelus stares. Rupert stares too; he can’t see energy like Casey can, but he trusts that what Casey sees is accurate. A vampire with a transparent aura doesn’t make sense, unless….

“No,” Rupert murmurs, and both Casey and the vampire look back at him. “No, it can’t be.”

“It is,” confirms Angelus quietly.

“What?” Demands Casey, looking back and forth between them.

“Angelus still has his soul,” Rupert breathes. “Re _markable,_ how on Earth…?”

“It’s not so much ‘still has’ as ‘was cursed with,’” the vampire drawls self deprecatingly. “I pissed off the wrong people and in revenge, they gave me back my soul.”

“Ahh,” Rupert says. “That explains it.”

“Yeah,” Angelus agrees.

 _”What?”_ Casey demands again, looking thoroughly done with being out of the loop.

“Well, Angelus the Scourge’s trails of blood and violence ended rather abruptly in the late eighteen-hundreds,” Rupert explains. “I assume that’s when he got his soul back, and was able to comprehend the horrors he had committed.”

“Yeah,” Repeats Angelus. “Those Gypsies sure know how to cook up a punishment.”

“Okay,” Says Casey. “I still don’t know why this means you want to help, or that I should trust you.”

Angelus shrugs. “Can’t you take it on faith?”

Casey stares at him.

“Okay, fine. Look, I’ve been around a long time. I hear a lot of things and I know a lot of things, _and_ I’m really hard to kill. It might be good to have me on your side. Your librarian over there might have the books about the past and the occult, but I _lived_ the past and the occult. I can teach you things he can’t. Besides,” He flashes a smile. “What’s one more pretty face?”

Rupert finds himself thoroughly disliking this vampire, however reformed he may be. From the look on Casey’s face, the younger man agrees.

Angelus sighs. “What, you don’t think I’d make a better patrol buddy? I’m sturdier than your Watcher. And don’t you like older guys?”

 _Wham._ Angelus flies backwards-- Casey had kicked him in the chest, and then slammed the door. The Slayer turns around in a huff, clearly furious. Rupert finds himself… slightly chuffed. He tries not to smile too much, though, because Casey is still puffing angrily.

“Ouch,” Comes a muffled groan from outside the door. Casey whirls back around and glares daggers at the wood-- Rupert feels a drop in his stomach, and he’s not sure if it’s fear or arousal. Or both. Is his door starting to smolder?

“Look,” Comes Angelus’s strained voice as he picks himself back up outside. “I just want to help you, okay? You don’t have to take me up on it now, just… think about it. I’ll be around.”

Casey lets out a riled growl and begins pacing rapidly behind the couch, his hands curled into claws. Rupert is unable to stop the small laugh that burbles from his mouth. Casey pauses and pouts at him suspiciously.

“What.”

“W-- uh, you… defended me. Quite violently.”

“I hope I broke a few of his ribs,” he snarls venomously.

Rupert laughs again.

Casey squints up at him, and Rupert is quite certain that the Slayer does not intend to be quite so adorable when he’s still pissed off.

“You don’t need to be so vehement,” Rupert says, crossing the space between them and taking the Slayer’s clawed hands in his own. He takes to time to kiss the curled knuckles until Casey’s hands relax. “I assure you I am quite capable of handling a vampire on my own.”

“I know,” Casey murmurs, staring sightlessly through Rupert’s chest. “I just don’t like him.”

Rupert laughs and pulls the little Slayer to him in a hug.

“I will admit I’m quite glad.”

Casey’s face raises from where it was buried in his chest to squint up at him.

“You don’t really think I’d go for a brat like him, do you?”

“Well I don’t know,” Rupert returns. “Anyone can see he’s very attractive, and as he pointed out, you do seem to like older men.”

Casey scowls and stomps on Rupert’s foot. The noise when the younger man’s heel hits the floor is loud, but the actual weight put on Rupert’s toes is barely palpable. So considerate, his Slayer.

“I like _you,”_ Casey pouts, scowling. “You’re pretty and smart and nice. But normally I go for younger guys. I’ve never dated someone much older than me before.”

“I-I’m pretty?”

Rupert falters. Him? He’d always been on the scrawny side, and now at his age…

“Yes,” Casey says with finality.

“Oh.”

Casey buries his face back in Rupert’s chest. Him…. Pretty. Compared to the, well, _angelic_ Angelus or even to Casey himself, Rupert isn’t quite sure how that can be. He’d gotten a few girls back in his day, true, but back then he’d had much more cause for bragging, many more things for a woman to latch onto than his looks. He sighs quietly.

“Rupert,” Comes Casey’s sleepy voice, muffled by his sweater.

“Hm?”

“Do we have to patrol, tonight?”

Rupert thinks about it. Angelus is the only vampire they’ve seen since Sunday. Do they really need to go out? It’s better safe than sorry, but at the same time… “What did you have in mind?”

“Can we go to bed early?”

Rupert glances around. They’d already had dinner, but still. It’s barely seven in the evening.

“This early?”

Casey pulls away from the hug, taking Rupert’s hands in his as he tugs Rupert towards the bedroom.

_Oh._

They both change into a T-shirt and sweats, taking turns in the bathroom. When Rupert comes out Casey is perched on the edge of his bed, and crawls up to kneel on the covers. He pats the space in front of him, indicating for Rupert to sit against the headboard.

“Come here.”

Almost in a trance, Rupert does so, and Casey straddles his lap in a sinuous motion. Rupert finds himself suddenly unsure what to do, his hands hovering awkwardly. Casey is illuminated only by the bedside lamp, and with a start Rupert realizes just how dark the younger man’s skin actually is. His pale green-yellow eyes stand out luminously in his face, the strong line of his cheekbone illuminated sharply. Rupert’s hands drift to a dazed rest on Casey’s thighs.

Casey shifts a little closer in his lap and takes Rupert’s face between his hands, and suddenly Rupert knows what is going on. The damned, intuitive child. Casey’s thumbs trace the lines around Rupert’s eyes.

“Casey,” Rupert breaths, half in warning and half in plea.

Casey’s eyes snap to his-- Rupert notes absentmindedly the poetry of their matching gazes; his, a warm bright green with a section of deep drown; Casey’s the palest blue-green with a center of golden yellow. They match, Rupert thinks, almost whimsically. And then Casey is leaning forward, and his full, soft lips are pressed ever so gently against Rupert’s, and _Lord--_ It’s been a very long time, and Rupert dearly hopes the younger man isn’t paying as much attention as he usually is. He doesn’t want to make Casey uncomfortable, doesn’t want to ruin this moment that Casey obviously has in mind-- well, he _would_ like to, but not like that.

Casey pulls back, and Rupert can’t help that the air is stolen from his lungs, that his heart stutters and flutters in his chest. He’s completely smitten, it’s been barely days and he’s already falling hard for the young man in his lap. Casey is so beautiful this close.

Casey shifts closer-- _shit,_ not too close-- and brushes the faintest of kisses to the line next to his mouth… the top of his cheek, under his eye… the wrinkles at the corner of his eye… the scar across his forehead, then the lines on his forehead themselves… the lines between his eyebrows, the corner of his other eye, his other cheek…. Rupert shouldn’t be this turned on, he shouldn’t be breathing so hard, but every gentle touch sends a shock through him and his heart is pounding. Casey kisses the tip of his nose, then grazes it with his teeth-- _Fuck--_ Then kisses the cleft in his chin.

When the Slayer’s lips return to Rupert’s, Rupert is fully aware that he’s breathing shakily into the younger man’s mouth. Casey’s lips curl into an infuriating smirk against his, and his teeth nip, ever so gently, at Rupert’s lower lip.

“Casey,” He gasps, not pulling back but still needing to make sure. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

“Yes,” Breathes Casey into his mouth. “I’m torturing you.”

“A-and--” Casey kisses him slowly.

“I’m not going to fuck you, Rupert,” He purrs. “But I feel like worshipping you right now, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Oh,” Rupert moans. “W-what if I asked you to stop?”

Casey leans back to look him in the eye, examining his face carefully. “Do you want me to?”

Rupert shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth helplessly.

“What is it, love?”

 _Fucking--_ “Y-you realize I cannot sleep like-- this?”

“Like what?”

Casey is smirking, the minx. He knows exactly ‘like what.’ Rupert casts about for a tactful way to put it. _Throbbing?_

“Don’t make me say it,” He says eventually.

Casey gives the broadest grin and gives a happy little bounce in his lap-- Rupert moans at the shock that goes through him. He realizes he’s gripping Casey’s thighs quite tightly-- perhaps not tightly to the Slayer, but for an ordinary person, hard enough to bruise. Oh God, the thought of his fingerprints bruising Casey’s thighs. Casey is grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and flexes within Rupert’s grasp.

“Off,” Rupert commands, unable to take it anymore.

Casey rolls off of him fluidly, still grinning as he flies from the bed for the bathroom door.

“It’s too bad you don’t have two bathrooms,” Casey calls after him.

The implication hits him like a ton of bricks as the door shuts behind him.

\---

When he reenters the bedroom, Casey is under the covers, cuddling a pillow and watching him with lidded, mischievous eyes. Rupert climbs under the covers gingerly, turning off the light and slowly sliding down to face the younger man.

“You’re very mean,” he murmurs, and even in the blackness he can see the flash of Casey’s teeth as he smiles.

Casey abandons the pillow and scoots closer to him, hands running up his sides to rest on his chest.

“Am I mean?” He purrs, and Rupert huffs a laugh.

“Was that really necessary?”

Casey’s nose brushes his cheek, before the younger man’s teeth sink into his lower lip. Even freshly spent, it sends a flash through Rupert’s core. Casey releases the bite and sucks Rupert’s lip into his mouth, laving the mark with his tongue before kissing him properly. _For a person not interested in sex, Casey seems to know plenty about seduction._

“It was necessary,” Casey whispers, his breath chilling Rupert’s lower lip. “Because you _are_ beautiful, Rupert. Don’t you shake your head at me-- Give me time. I’m going to take you apart piece by piece, and kiss every inch of you. And I’m going to like it.”

Rupert can’t help his noise of bewilderment. “B-but I thought you said--”

“This isn’t about sex for me, Rupert,” Interrupts the smaller man gently. “However much it may turn me on to see you looking at me so wrecked. This is about me getting to worship the beautiful man in front of me until he stops doubting me when I call him that. I’m extremely stubborn, Rupert. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Th-This is an entirely pointless crusade--”

Casey’s finger presses against his lips.

“Shut up,” Casey whispers, not unkindly.

Rupert reaches up and takes the younger man’s hand in his, kissing his fingertip before gently tracing the tip of his tongue across it. Casey’s breath catches, and he hears and feels the younger man shift, pressing his legs together. Rupert smirks. Good.

He can be mean too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did I just WRITE
> 
> *faints*
> 
> Also the G-word is a slur, I only use it here because Angel does in the show.


	8. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey goes undercover at Sunnydale High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to pronoun hell, in which I fuck up my own pronouns more times than I can count. Don't worry, I fixed them, all that I could catch anyway. Still, @ my brain can you get it together??

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“Th-This is an entirely pointless crusade--”_

_Casey’s finger presses against his lips._

_“Shut up,” Casey whispers, not unkindly._

_Rupert reaches up and takes the younger man’s hand in his, kissing his fingertip before gently tracing the tip of his tongue across it. Casey’s breath catches, and he hears and feels the younger man shift, pressing his legs together. Rupert smirks. Good._

_He can be mean too._

* * *

  

_Monday, Twenty-ninth of September, 1997_

_Casey_

 

It’s been more than two weeks since Casey had given in and joined Rupert in his bed. They haven’t done anything quite as daring again, though. Rupert seems less hesitant to touch Casey now that he knows where the lines are, graduating from nearly skittish to respectfully gentle. He is also far less responsive to Casey’s teasing. Casey is sure they only got such a strong response last week due to a combination of shock factor, Rupert being emotionally vulnerable, and the fact that Rupert had stutteringly admitted a few days later that he hadn’t gotten laid in years.

Luckily, it seems Rupert doesn’t mind being teased. He smiles more, now, and sometimes even teases Casey right back with a small, nearly mischievous smile. He doesn’t at all seem to mind Casey being permanently prudish, or that Casey is younger than him, or that Casey is a gender nonconforming freak of nature. Casey can’t quite wrap their head around how lucky they got.

That day at lunch, Rupert hums thoughtfully as he reads the paper.

“What?” Casey asks, leaning forward to see.

He passes them the paper. “It seems a schoolgirl caught fire today at Sunnydale High. Some sort of freak cheerleading accident.”

Casey wrinkles their forehead, skimming the article. “What kind of cheerleading involves fire?”

“The acrobatic kind?” Rupert suggests, warming his hands on his tea.

“I sincerely doubt they let their cheerleaders perform carnival tricks,” Casey says drily.

“It would certainly be more riveting than the usual."

“So what do you think?” Casey asks, tossing the paper aside and resting their forearms on the table. “It didn’t read like self immolation, and I’m pretty sure it’s the athletes who have rage problems, not the cheer squad. Besides, spontaneous combustion is usually full body, not originating from a specific place and spreading.”

“It is odd,” Rupert murmurs. "It could have been sabotage, I suppose, but the only way to tell...."

He has that faraway thoughtful look in his eyes and Casey gets a bad feeling.

“Rupert….”

“Well I _have_ been thinking, Casey. Sunnydale High has a disproportionate amount of disasters as compared to the rest of the town, it might behoove us to--”

“No! Rupert, I flunked high school!”

“We could easily forge your papers to get you admitted, although I am loathe to do so I admit. The Council would allow it in pursuance of your Slayer duties. I could get a job as the librarian or some such, it _might_ be very useful--”

“No.” Casey stands from the table violently and begins to pace. “I’ll just fail out again Rupert, there’s no point.”

“I would help you with your homework, Casey,” He says gently.

Casey stops, their back to him. _High school. Of all the horrible...._

“The homework wasn’t the issue." They snap. "The issue was me. The teachers all hated me no matter how hard I fucking tried.”

They whirl around and pierce Rupert with a glare. “I am _not_ going back.”

“Alright," He sighs. "But that doesn’t change the fact that you need to be _around._ The students need to feel inclined to speak to you, and I will admit you can pass quite easily as a high school girl.”

Casey sighs. It’s a long sigh, a soul-deep sigh. They know exactly where this is going, the plan has already formed in their head. It would work. It would probably work very well. God _damn_ it.

“I don’t want to go shopping again,” they grumble, pouting.

Rupert raises his eyebrows.

\---

As it turns out, Casey doesn’t need much in the way of clothing in order to work their disguise. Just few women’s shirts, and small selection of women’s undergarments-- all extremely plain, black, and handled with comical distaste. The real focus is in cosmetics; Casey buys a whole set of makeup, as well as some nail polish and hair styling products.

Rupert seems a bit out of his depth when it comes to putting together the fine details of a disguise, and Casey thanks their lucky theatre-nerd stars that this all comes naturally to them. They can’t imagine what Rupert would put together.

At home, Casey begins planning outfits, lying them out draped over the couch. Rupert watches with crossed arms.

“So what exactly is your plan?” He asks.

Casey fiddles with a button down, deciding how it can be worn. _With the bottom tied around the waist, maybe? Or is it form-fitting enough to be worn normally?_ They sigh and set it aside. “I pull out the old ‘mysterious edgy girl’ vibe, sneak around the school, flirt with some people. They tell me the deets, I get invited to some parties, whatever. How old do you think I can pull off?”

“I don’t know,” Rupert says. “With no makeup you look very young, perhaps fourteen or so. Regardless of the assumed gender.”

“Okay.” Casey stands back, hands on hips, and stares at the outfits. “Right. I’m gonna try on this getup and we’ll try and decide an age from there.”

The outfits Casey has designed are simple. In the bathroom, they change first into the horribly uncomfortable women’s underclothes. Then, they add their normal jeans slung extremely low on the hips, a black cropped T-shirt that’s far too form-fitting, and a black baggy jacket over it. Their leather boots are fine-- nice and stompy-- and they use styling gel to take their hair from fluffy to spiky and artfully mussed. With heavily smoked brown eyeshadow, black eyeliner, clear lip gloss and black nails, the look is complete. Casey experiments for a moment with poses and posture, before taking off the jacket again and draping it over their shoulders like a cape.

Odd. Casey hasn’t looked very hard in a mirror in years, but even all dressed up they still look decidedly androgynous. Casey tries popping their hips out, pushing their chest up, pouting coyly at their reflection…. And still don’t look quite as feminine as they remembered themself looking. They suddenly worry that maybe this plan will work… too well. To their own eyes, if they were a girl they’d probably be early twenties, not late teens as they’d planned. And if that isn’t downright squicky, trying to pick up high schoolers with them thinking Casey is that old. Beyond yuck. The teens would eat up the attention of an “older woman” but Casey isn’t sure if they can stomach that.

Oh well. They leave the bathroom with a laid back posture, and pose casually in Rupert’s doorway.

“Oh my,” Rupert says.

Casey wrinkles their nose. “Didn’t quite go as planned, but honestly I don’t think I can pull off going girlier. I don’t know how but I’ve gotten considerably less feminine since I was sixteen.”

“W-well it’s… certainly a look,” He replies, taking in the bare expanse of Casey’s midriff. “Were I a sixteen year old boy I’m sure I would be falling over myself to impress you.”

Casey can’t help but shudder. “I really hate the idea of preying on kids like this.”

“You’re hardly _preying_ on them,” Rupert scoffs, as he takes off his glasses to clean them. “It’s not as if you’ll actually be trying to sleep with them, you’ll just be getting information.”

“God, this is disgusting. I’m going to have to flirt with _sixteen-year-olds._ My baby sister would be that age about now.”

“I know,” Rupert says quietly, and he sounds a bit disturbed by it too. He puts his glasses back on with a frown. “It’s distasteful. But I don’t know any other way to get the information we need without involving the children. Even enrollment would have you in amongst them-- arguably, further in, as they’d think you one of them.”

“Yech.” Casey shudders again. "Should I try a wig, do you think? Would long hair make me look younger?”

“It might actually make you look older,” Rupert mutters.

“Shit.”

* * *

 

_Tuesday, Thirtieth of September, 1997_

 

Casey had spent the previous night at the Bronze in their new costume, being inexpertly hit on by teenage boys. They had lost themself in the old pattern of it, mindlessly flirting back and pining over Rupert’s intuitive tact, which the younger boys decidedly lacked. Then they’d gone home to Rupert and had hidden against his chest all night.

But it’s morning, and school is in session. Casey is reluctantly back in costume and Rupert drops them off at the school around ten.

The courtyard of the school is packed, students milling around a bulletin board. Almost all girls, although Casey sees one of the boys who’d been hitting on them at the Bronze. Probably loitering for the back view of the gaggle of girls. _Teenagers..._

Casey wanders into the shadows of the walkway, leaning against a pillar and feeling like a predator. Some boys they’d met last night greet them hopefully as they pass, and Casey offers them a sweet smile. This place is much nicer than the school they went to, Casey notes as they scan the environment. Pretty tile instead of cracked concrete, a second floor with balcony. Casey's school had been diminutive and grungy, with bullet holes in the glass. This place is intimidating by comparison.

The boy from the bulletin crowd is approaching with a red-haired girl beside him. He sees Casey and his face lights up. _Here we go,_ Casey thinks, making sure their posture is suitably feminine and their face is pleasantly neutral.

“Liz!” He calls, hurrying up. The red haired girl looks between them curiously. “Liz, hey! You remember me? Xander. From the Bronze. I-I was there last night, and so were you, and we talked.”

 _He's such a geeky boy,_ Casey thinks sardonically. Overeager and coming off creepy because of it. _Rupert may be stumbling when it comes to flirting, but he’s more like a puppy than a creep._

“I remember,” Casey demurs.

“Oh!” Xander turns to his friend. “Willow, this is Liz-- Liz, Willow. Liz is a _college_ student.” _Fancy._

“O-oh yeah, nice to meet you, Liz.”

Willow smiles, a cute little gummy smile. _How is a girl like this hanging around with a boy like Xander?_

“Pleasure,” Casey says. They jerk their chin towards the dispersing crowd of girls. Several are either hugging each other in celebration, or in tears. “What was all that about?”

“Cheerleading tryout results,” Willow chirps. “Xander likes to mingle with them.”

“Well, now, I-- You make me sound shallow, Willow! I-I just-- Like…”

Casey snorts quietly. “It’s okay, honey. I know how it is. Didn’t I hear about a girl getting hurt at tryouts?”

“Oh yeah!” Willow enthuses, as Xander makes a choking sound at the endearment. “She caught fire, it was the strangest thing! Cordelia-- that’s one of the other girls that was trying out-- must have been super pleased to have her out of the way, since she was like a real professional.”

Cordelia. Huh. Someone to check out.

“Uh, look,” Says Xander, glancing over his shoulder nervously. “I have to head to class, but-- Will you be around? At the Bronze tonight, maybe?”

“I’ll be around,” Casey smirks. _Of course I'll be around. You all have the information I need._

“Great! Isn’t that great, Wil?”

“Oh, yeah!” Willow agrees. Poor, sweet girl.

“Well I’ll see you later, then!” Xander says.

Casey watches them walk away. _Now then; Cordelia… Where to find Cordelia?_ They begin to wander across the courtyard, smiling smokily at the boys who greet them, but as it turns out Cordelia finds them. The taller girl stalks up to Casey with a sweet, fake smile.

“Hi!” She says. “I heard there was a college girl hanging around, I’m Cordelia.”

“Liz,” Casey says. “You’re a cheerleader, aren’t you? Everyone’s talking.”

“Oh, you _heard?”_ Cordelia says, affecting flattery. “Well, I admit it was a close call! This _horrid_ girl Amy nearly blew my tryout, can you believe it! And after I worked so hard, too. If she’d kept me off the team I can’t _imagine_ what I would have done!” She gives a tinkling, canned laugh.

“That’s horrible!” Casey agrees, frowning. They can already feel their brain cells dying just from talking to this girl. Woe is the future of Sunnydale if this is the kind of child they put out. Casey begins to lie baldly. “Obviously you’re a perfect cheerleader, even I can see that. Who does this Amy think she is, getting in your way?”

“I know, right?” Cordelia tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “Just because her mom was some high-and-mighty cheerleader, _little Amy_ thinks she has the right! Well, she doesn’t. The spot is mine and _Amy_ is just second alternate. Serves her right.”

Casey nods, and is saved by the bell-- Cordelia excuses herself smarmily and hurries for her class and Casey tries to keep their sigh of relief quiet.

Once the students are gone, Casey pulls heavily at their favorite magic-- the ‘pebble-on-the-sidewalk’ spell, that renders Casey unimaginably boring to look at. Some people are naturally unaffected by it-- some, like Rupert, are capable of countering it with their own magic. But most of the time it works just fine. Casey ghosts through the school, finding a yearbook in the library and making note of the important faces-- The girls who had been clustered around the bulletin board. Cordelia may be petty, but Casey can’t see her as intelligent enough to be a culprit, nor did she feel particularly magical. They’ll have to find Amy next and see what her deal is.

\---

That night, Casey lounges at the Bronze, waiting for an opportunity to fall into their lap. They hadn’t been able to find Amy at the school, but perhaps she’ll turn up here, or perhaps someone else will talk in her place. Several boys and Cordelia’s gaggle greet Casey as they pass, but Casey doesn’t try to engage them deeply in conversation-- they can tell none of them have the information they’ll need. All too soon, Willow and Xander show up. _Yippee... There go my hopes for a quiet evening. I want to go home._

“Hey!” Greets Xander, leaning on Casey’s table. “You’re around! I mean, you showed up, that’s nice!”

Casey shrugs and offers a little smirk. “How could I say no to seeing you again?”

“Can we join you?” Asks Xander, motioning to the two empty seats. Casey waves a hand invitingly. _Goodbye, silence. Goodbye, sanity._

“So are you from around here?” Asks Willow. The girl is absurdly friendly, even with her leery guy-friend tagging along.

“I’m from out of state,” Casey says. “But I needed to get away from my folks, and Sunnydale seemed like the place for that.”

“And Xander says you’re in college? What’s that like, are the classes very interesting?”

Casey laughs. Ah, a bookworm. “They’re alright. My history professor is really something, I’ll give it that.”

 _Well, he's not_ **_just_ ** _a history teacher. He's also a martial arts instructor.... a witch.... a cuddlebug......_ Willow looks like she’s going to keep right on talking, but Xander interrupts her.

“So, how are you liking the Bronze? Not many guys here your age but the music’s great.”

“Ah, I like younger guys,” Casey replies, dying inside. _Ew, ew, ew, ew--_ “The ones I go to school with are so stuffy, you know?”

“Oh yes,” Xander agrees vehemently. “Hate those _stuffy_ older guys! We young guys are much more fun, it’s good you decided to hang out with us.”

“How about you?” Casey asks, before either of the kids can go on another tangent. “I mean, from what I’ve heard school has been exciting recently, what with the drama at tryouts. First a girl catches fire, then there’s a major fumble?”

“Oh, well,” Willow says. “That was Amy-- but it wasn’t a _major_ fumble. I mean, she fell into Cordelia, but it wasn’t that bad. Amy was so torn up about it after though. Her mom is really hard on her, wants her to be a top cheerleader just like she was back in the day, and poor Amy’s crumbling under the pressure.”

“I know the feeling,” Casey says sympathetically. “Parents can be really harsh when you don’t live up to their standards.”

“Amy’s mom is _really_ harsh,” Willow agrees. “If Amy gains too much weight, her mom will padlock the fridge and only let her have broth! I used to invite Amy over to my house when that happened and we’d pig out on brownies, but recently she hasn’t wanted to. I guess she’s started taking her cheerleading stuff seriously, but I just hope she’s not getting in too much trouble over being an alternate.”

\---

When Casey gets home, Rupert is still up, reading.

“How did it go?” He asks, marking his place in the book.

“I need a shower,” Is all Casey says.

They go into Rupert’s room and grab a pair of their boxer-briefs, then dig through the hamper and pull out one of Rupert’s dirty button-downs. It’s quick work in the shower, scrubbing off the hair gel and makeup and the air of femininity from their person before they put on the underwear and Rupert’s shirt. They give their teeth a quick brush at the sink, wondering if all the sweet-talking they’d done that day will give them a cavity. When they come out, Rupert is already dressed for sleep, just pulling on a T-shirt. He stares for a minute at Casey in his shirt, which is well too big for them and covers their boxer-briefs entirely.

Casey crawls into bed from Rupert’s side, burrowing under the covers like a cat and curling into a ball. They hear Rupert brush his teeth in the bathroom, before the lights go out. The mattress dips and Rupert lifts the blankets, frowning at Casey.

“Bad day?”

Casey sighs and moves to lie properly in the bed, burrowing into Rupert’s chest as he lays facing them. _Yes, bad day. Horrible day. Exceedingly distasteful day._ Rupert wraps his arms around them with a sigh, rubbing Casey’s back with one hand. _Oh, that's nice...._

“Stupid high schoolers,” Casey mumbles into his shirt, barely enunciating. “Stupid fucking kids.”

Rupert snorts, ruffling Casey’s hair. “Everyone was a ‘stupid fucking kid’ once, my love.”

Casey hums, partially at Rupert swearing and partially at his term of address. He doesn't swear very often, so it always makes Casey smile when he does. Rupert kisses the top of their head and they stretch up against him, raising their face to his. They kiss gently, slowly, and Casey lets themself get lost in it. This is all that need, to be warm and safe, kissing their “stuffy older guy,” who is gentle and respectful and knows how to flirt and when to shut up. Sadly, eventually Rupert breaks the kiss, although he barely moves away. Their lips still brush as he speaks.

“Did you find anything, out amongst the children?”

“I have someone I need to investigate, yeah. There’s a girl being badly mistreated by her mother. She wants to become a cheerleader so badly but flubbed the tryouts and will only get to cheer if two girls drop out. That sounds like motive to me, especially since that girl who caught fire would have been a shoo-in for cheerleader if she’d tried out.”

Rupert hums. “That would simply leave means, and a fire doesn’t conclusively point towards anything.”

“Mm.”

They kiss again, and Rupert holds Casey a little tighter. There’s probably more to say, Casey is sure, but they can handle it in the morning. Their mind is already starting to loosen and drift with sleep. They make a sleepy little noise into Rupert’s mouth and he chuckles quietly, pulling away to press a kiss to their forehead.

“Go to sleep, now,” He whispers.

Casey hums, nuzzles into his neck, and does so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a fucking trial and a half to write. I do NOT like having to include the kids in this but it seems like the only way without getting wildly odd with my methods.


	9. Curses Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey meets the witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter contains the necessary talk about abusive mothers, and a panic attack caused by them. If those things aren't your jam, the plot is the same as in Episode three-- namely the cursing of Cordelia Chase and of Lishanne, the black cheerleader in Chemistry class.

PREVIOUSLY

 

_They kiss again, and Rupert holds Casey a little tighter. There’s probably more to say, Casey is sure, but they can handle it in the morning. Their mind is already starting to loosen and drift with sleep. They make a sleepy little noise into Rupert’s mouth and he chuckles quietly, pulling away to press a kiss to their forehead._

_“Go to sleep, now,” He whispers._

_Casey hums, nuzzles into his neck, and does so._

* * *

 

_Wednesday, First of October, 1997_

_Casey_

 

Casey opens their eyes in the morning, wide awake and positive that something is wrong. Not in the immediate area, not in Rupert’s apartment-- but in general. Something has gone wrong. Casey frowns, eyes open and staring unseeingly into Rupert’s neck. The wrack their brain, but can’t seem to grasp what it is they’ve sensed.

 _It’s probably another one of those_ **_useless_ ** _premonitions,_ Casey thinks irritably. _Always telling me next to nothing, or else something a blind man could see._

Rupert hums sleepily and shifts, pressing his lips into Casey’s hair, and Casey’s eyes snap into focus. They press closer to him and look up into his face-- he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.

“Mornin’,” Casey rasps, fighting a smile at Rupert’s sleepy, lazy countenance.

“Mm,” he groans, raising his eyebrows without opening his eyes as if to clear his brain of sleep fog. “Morning….”

It’s not a greeting, just a barely comprehending repetition. Casey can’t help but giggle, and a little smile curls the corner of Rupert’s mouth.

“Did you sleep well?” He says, nearly slurring because he’s barely opened his mouth to speak.

“Guess so,” Casey says, watching him fondly. “Got some stupid premonition now though, I’m gonna have to be on the lookout today.”

“Premonition?” Rupert cracks one eye open, curiosity shining through. “You’re a seer?”

“If you wanna call it that. I never get useful stuff anyways, mostly just flashes of everyday stuff.”

He hums, closing his eye again, before taking a deep, slow breath. “So it’ll be a busy day, then.”

“Seems so,” Agrees Casey, resting their face against his collarbone.

It takes them a while to get out of bed, both too tired and warm to really want to, but in the end the nagging feeling of Something Wrong has Casey up first. Breakfast is small and halfhearted as Casey takes fly-by bites, chewing as they get ready for the day. By the time school is starting, Casey gives Rupert a quick kiss goodbye and heads for the door.

“Casey,” Rupert calls, his voice still mellow from sleep.

Casey looks back to see him still a little ruffled and bleary, sitting at the table with his mug in both hands and his hair fluffy and unstyled.

“Do be careful,” He says.

Casey flashes a smile. “I will.”

It’s a nice sunny day as Casey walks to Sunnydale High, but the clean air and the bright, fresh light doesn’t do anything to stem the feeling of Wrongness. Casey grows more and more troubled the closer they get to the school, and as soon as they step on campus a tiny warning siren begins to ring in their head.

Reflexively, Casey pulls their notice-me-not magic up in a swirl and begins scanning the environment, eyes blank as they take everything in. Everything insignificant fades to the background, possible threats or important details leaping out in bright color. Anyone reaching into a bag, pocket, or jacket, anyone moving strangely, anyone paying a little too much attention. A flare of bright lime green-- It’s Cordelia, with a heavy net of purple-black energy hanging off of her form. A curse, Casey knows instinctively, and a bad one. Time delayed, watching maliciously for the perfect time to strike.

Casey sweeps through the students, stalking Cordelia out to the Driver’s Ed course. When they see her heading for a car, Casey breaks into a sprint, but is seconds too slow to stop her from getting behind the wheel.

Mindful of their own safety, Casey fades back, watching from a radius as Cordelia tries to drive….. Destroys the course…. Crashes through the fence and into the street. Casey follows after, hopping through the hole before the approaching crowd is even close, and swiftly ushers a disoriented Cordelia out of the street. The curse, which had been pulsing pink like an evil giggle, suddenly explodes blue before absorbing into Cordelia and tangling around her invisible core of energy.

“Oh god,” Cordelia exclaims, looking down at her hand. “I can’t-- I can’t see, I can’t-- I can’t _see!”_

Her eyes are clouded white.

\---

“Oh hi, Liz.”

Casey glances back to see the little redheaded girl, Willow, smiling her friendly smile. Casey is at the high school still, lounging in the shadows and people watching. After taking Cordelia to a nurse and slipping away through the crowd, Casey had realized the feeling of Something Wrong hadn’t faded. They need to find their main suspect Amy fast, but the girl has been nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Willow.”

“You’ve been hanging around a lot, is there someone you’re hoping to meet?”

Willow’s smile is teasing and girlishly excited, and Casey feels a flutter of nostalgia in their chest-- she means a boy, Casey knows. It’s been a long time since Casey has shadily hung around waiting to meet a boy. Willow couldn’t know there _is_ someone Casey is looking to meet, or why. Casey wonders how to spin this in their favor-- Willow seems pretty young, as innocent as all kids are; she won’t catch Casey’s odd conversational twists, but she is smart enough to sense a pattern. Briefly, Casey considers roping her in as a conspirator-- no kid can resist a mission. But…. no. Ethics.

“There is, actually,” Casey says in their most casual voice. “Though maybe it’s not how you think. I know it’s none of my business but ever since what you said at the Bronze last night, I haven’t quite been able to stop worrying for Amy. I’ve been where she is, you know? I hate to see anyone going through stuff like that.”

There, partially the truth. Casey _has_ been where Amy is, before. Willow’s face relaxes in understanding-- _checkmate._

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you. R-really I’ve been worried about her too, but she’s so hard to pin down. She trains so much nowadays. Do you think-- could you talk to her? I have Chemistry with her next a-and maybe after class--”

“I’d like that,” Casey says gently. “You’re a good person, looking out for her like this.”

“Ohh,” Willow blushes and begins to head towards her classroom, Casey in step next to her.

As soon as they approach the classroom Casey knows that this is where the Something Wrong is coming from. They can sense a black miasma pressing in on their chest, psychic warnings and dark intentions and premonitions all wrapped into one. It feels like a panic attack, but it’s not. Casey has felt this before, and it means danger-- real, sincere danger. Either something bad is happening, or it will happen very soon, and Casey makes sure their pleasantly neutral face hasn’t dropped. Willow pauses outside the door and faces Casey with a smile, taking a deep breath that makes Casey wonder if she can sense it too a little.

“Well, here we are. Um, I know it’s a long wait…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Casey comforts her. “I’ve got all the time in the world, an hour’s nothing. I’ll see you and Amy after class?”

Willow nods. She has the air of a child play acting as a soldier.

\---

Throughout the entirety of the class period, Casey sits on the floor nearby and tunes deeply into the black energies. It takes a while to parse out the different threads-- some are timelines, at least three. Some are the misgivings of sensitive students, and the warnings of spirits in the area to steer clear. But at the core is something different; a teal thread.

Casey knows this magic like the back of their hand. The teal is deep and terrifying, as soul-crushing as the depths of the ocean and just as dark. Whoever this person is, they are a very powerful, and very dangerous witch.

And a mother. That’s the part of the energy that strikes primal, blind fear into Casey’s heart-- it feels a bit like their own mother.

Casey is very worried. They wouldn’t be able to feel the witch’s magic so strongly unless she was watching-- most likely a remote monitoring spell, yet the witch feels so near. This isn’t the sort of confrontation Casey wants to have; they’re an energy reader, a seer, a scholar; not a combat witch. They know that face to face with a powerful telekinetic, they’d have to rely on their wits alone. ….Well, and their Slayer powers. Which they somehow can’t use.

A great swooping sensation, a wave of blackness flashes over Casey’s vision, and the classroom behind them erupts into screams. Casey bolts to their feet and stares paralyzed through the wall-- plaster doesn’t blind them to the curse strangling the invisible outline of a child’s energy. Impulsively, Casey reaches an energetic hand to touch the black-purple mesh and is shocked by the sharp pain in their physical palm.

The door is thrown open and Casey steps back out of the immediate line of sight; a man in lab coat ushers a teenage girl past, her mouth grown over with smooth flesh. A cheerleader. Willow comes out the door next with a shocked and confused looking Amy beside her, but Casey barely hears the girl’s shaky excuse to do this some other time.

 _Fear_ strikes Casey in the solar plexus, stealing their breath. For a second Amy’s frightened blue eyes meet Casey’s and Casey’s brain seizes, paralyzed because Casey’s mother is inside those eyes. _It’s not really her,_ Casey chants in their head, but they know; Amy isn’t Amy, and whoever she is she knows Casey is onto her. Strangling, nauseating, animalistic fear consumes Casey’s mind.

Casey doesn’t remember turning and leaving campus, they don’t remember running. They don’t remember the streets they took or the loudness of their feet over concrete. They don’t remember finding Rupert’s apartment or climbing the stairs to his door, but suddenly there they are shoving in past the threshold, and Rupert stands, startled as they crash into his arms.

Terror, terror, terror is clouding Casey’s brain, whiting out logic and measure. Horrible teal is running like a slimy writhing worm through their mind, their mother’s favorite damned color. Rupert is saying things but Casey can’t hear his words; they might be shaking but can’t feel their body.

Another moment lost. Casey is on the couch, sitting crosswise over Rupert’s lap, and can’t remember how they got there. How long ago did they come in? Rupert is still talking and slowly, very slowly, Casey begins to be able to recognize words again.

“....alright, you’re alright, you’re alright--” He’s repeating himself, rocking Casey in time with the mantra. He sounds scared, Casey realizes groggily, and a pang of guilt lances through their heart.

They try to say something to reassure him, but can only make a tiny noise. Rupert holds them tightly, and Casey isn’t sure if the rocking is to sooth them or him.

“Shhhh, my love, my Casey, you’re alright, you’re okay….”

“I-I--” Casey tries, but their voice rasps and squeaks over the syllable. They clear their throat as Rupert presses a hard kiss to their temple. “I-I-I foun-nd-- her…”

“Who, Casey?” Rupert prompts gently, his breath warm across their cheek.

“The w-- ...w-- . _..w--”_ They can’t get the word out, but Rupert shushes them.

He understands.

His free hand cups their cheek, turning their face to his. He searches over them with his eyes as if he’s expecting an injury, but there isn’t an injury-- Casey shakes their head and his thumb comes down to rest lightly on their chin. _Be still._

It takes a moment before he’s satisfied. Then Rupert pulls them down to rest against his shoulder and heaves a deeply held sigh. They really scared him. Another pang of guilt.

“So it _was_ a witch,” Rupert murmurs, his hand large and warm cupping the back of Casey’s head to keep them against him.

Casey feels so secure, so lost in Rupert’s smell and his warmth and his presence. Safe enough that tears prickle their eyes.

“I hate her,” Casey chokes, their voice squeaking around the tears in their throat.

Rupert doesn’t ask who, and Casey thanks every recorded god that somehow he knows when not to push. He gathers them into his arms bridal style and stands from the couch-- Casey would be impressed at his strength if they weren’t aware that they’d always been on the lighter side. Rupert carries them into his bedroom, sets them gently on his side of the bed. He pulls one of his button downs from the hamper, one of his sweaters from a drawer. He sets them down next to Casey and lowers to one knee, resting his hands gently on Casey’s knees.

“Can you dress yourself?”

Straightforward, no hedge-beating, but Casey stares hard at the clothes and realizes they’ve hit a block. They want to do it themself, but can’t force their body to move. After a moment they sigh deeply and lower their face in shame.

“That’s alright,” Rupert murmurs.

He doesn’t seem disgusted that Casey needs to be dressed like a child, if anything he seems to have slipped naturally into a caretaking role. He takes off their heavy jacket and sets it aside, then drapes his button down around Casey’s shoulder like a cape and deftly buttons it up. _Smart,_ Casey acknowledges, wiggling their shirt and bra off under the covering and dropping them out the neck hole before putting their arms into the sleeves. Rupert’s shirt is so big their fingertips barely brush the bottoms of the cuffs.

“Arms up,” Rupert instructs, and pulls his sweater down onto Casey when they comply.

Next he sits back on his heels and pulls Casey feet one at a time into his lap, unlacing their boots and setting them aside methodically. He pulls of their socks and tosses them into the hamper, then sits up on his knees and places his hands on Casey’s legs, just a bit above the knee.

“And your jeans?” He asks simply. _On or off?_

“Off,” Casey pouts.

They lean back so Rupert can unbutton them, and he slides them off easily; they’re hardly form fitting. He stands and fetches a pair of Casey’s boxer briefs, offering them with a questioning eyebrow raised. Casey nods, taking them. They can do this part themself.

“Jus’ turn your back,” Casey mumbles, and makes the change quickly, shooting the panties they’d been wearing into the hamper like a rubber band.

“Good,” Rupert compliments, his face relaxed into a soft, fond expression. “All done.”

Casey holds their arms up like a child, and a barely-suppressed smile flutters across Rupert’s face. They stand on the bed and lower themself into Rupert’s obliging arms gently, taking most of their own weight with their legs around his waist. Honestly, Casey thinks as Rupert carries them back to the living room, they’re impressed Rupert can carry them this much at all. Their father had begged off carrying duties when Casey had turned seven, saying it was too much for his back, and since then Casey has about doubled in weight. For all that Rupert tends to keep his back ramrod straight, it doesn’t ever seem to pain him much. The benefits of good posture, maybe?

Rupert sets them down on the couch and begins to swaddle them in blankets. He sweeps off for some tea, returns with their favorite, and once he’s made sure Casey is properly ensconced he turns to the bottom shelf of a bookshelf in the corner.

It has records, Casey realizes. Somehow they hadn’t quite realized that before now; the entire bottom shelf is records. Rupert looks through a few, evidently calculating which one would be best based off of memory, before selecting one and putting it on to play. Casey doesn’t recognize the glimpse of cover art, but then that’s no surprise; Casey has never owned any albums, has only heard songs played by other people, often at a distance. It’s classical, Chopin, Casey recognizes with a start; somehow they hadn’t been expecting Rupert to play something so stereotypical, but the songs are very familiar to Casey and soothing.

“There,” Rupert says, joining Casey on the couch and wrapping his arms around them.

Casey hums, wrapped up in blankets and warm steam from their tea and classical music and Rupert. The fingers of their right hand play along to the music on the ceramic side of their mug. Rupert lets them enjoy the music for a while before he speaks.

“What happened, my love?”

Casey’s left hand convulses on the mug, and Casey hurriedly sets it down on the coffee table; they’ve crushes glasses in their grip before. They don’t want to think about the blinding teal panic-- Rupert’s pampering and Chopin’s music have left a pleasant haze over their mind that is much better. They sigh, leaning in to hide against Rupert’s shoulder.

“I met the witch,” They say, in a very low and very reluctant voice.

“Indeed?” Rupert prompts, rubbing Casey’s arm.

“She’s bad,” Casey whispers. “She’s _horrible,_ Rupert, and s-so powerful. She’s taken over the body of the girl I wanted to investigate, Amy, I don’t know if Amy is still in there or if she’s---”

Casey can’t say the alternatives. A sixteen year old girl….

“The w-witch is-- I think she might be-- Well n-no, I don’t know, but--”

“I trust your intuition,” Rupert says gently.

“I-I thi-in-nk she’s Amy’s moth-ther,” Casey stutters.

Just the thought of it is horrifying to Casey. A mother taking over her own daughter’s body-- a whole new level of violation for an already abusive bitch. That poor girl.

Rupert seems stunned; he’s frozen and Casey can nearly hear his shock.

“D-do you mean to say… that the girl’s mother has-- possessed her? O-or else murdered her own daughter?”

Casey sighs, closing their eyes. _There it is._

“Good Lord,” Rupert whispers.

They sit in silence for a moment, mourning the possible passing of a child at the hands of her despicable mother. Casey feels violated just thinking about the situation; they curl tightly into a ball in their blanket cocoon, huddling against Rupert.

Rupert sighs, and seems the shake himself from thought. “But that doesn’t explain….” _why you came home the way you did._

“This is my favorite song,” Casey says, avoiding his question.

“Fantaisie-impromptu?”

They listen for a moment, but Casey can feel Rupert waiting for their answer. He deserves one too, Casey is sure he must have been terrified when they came in like they did.

“She feels just like my mother,” Casey whispers eventually.

“Ah.”

It’s not enough, it’s not what he deserves, but Rupert seems to understand. Casey wonders suddenly what his own relationship with his parents must be like if he so readily understands a traumatizing mother.

They eat an early dinner; Casey isn’t very hungry, and is still feeling clumsy and not all there. Rupert is attentive and helps them with simple things, making sure anything they need is immediately within their reach, and his slow, deliberate manner sets Casey at ease. By the time the meal is through, Casey is nearly nodding off at the table, swaying in their seat as Rupert washes the dishes. Casey lets him carry them into the bathroom and sit them on the counter; points out which products to use as he gently wipes away their makeup with a warm, damp washcloth; and even lets him brush their teeth for them, knowing their arms are far too heavy and clumsy to do it right now without getting toothpaste all over their face. A fluttering feeling races up and down their body as Rupert stands between their knees, holding their chin gently in one hand as he brushes their teeth. Casey hasn’t felt a flutter like this-- maybe ever, and the hitch in their breath is extremely obvious. The corners of his eyes crinkle a litte, but Rupert just finishes brushing and helps them down off the counter so they can rinse. His hands don’t leave their hips as he turns them to face him.

“Can you tuck yourself in?” He asks, and Casey nods and pushes up onto their toes for a kiss. Rupert huffs a little laugh and kisses them once… twice…. deeply, before nudging them toward the bedroom.

Casey crawls into bed clumsily, their center of balance well off. They push the blankets and sheets back, slide in, but then don’t like the feel of it on their bare legs, so they fluff up the blankets and rub at their legs trying to make it comfortable. They’re not usually this picky-- couldn’t be, really, living like they did. But right now Casey feels warm and soft and hazy and can’t really force themself to think past the simple things. They’re still fussing around by the time Rupert has finished brushing his teeth.

Rupert climbs into bed, and Casey realizes what is making them antsy-- too many layers. They wrestle their way out of Rupert’s sweater and fling it haphazardly towards the hamper, which is across the room on Rupert’s side. They can hear that it hit the side instead of going in, but right now they don’t care; the wiggle down under the blankets and into Rupert’s arms.

Rupert’s fingers trace through the hair on the back of their head, and another shade of sleepiness slams down hard over Casey. Their ability to think flutters away, and Casey falls easily into sleep.

* * *

 

A horrible sensation, panic, like falling backwards into blackness that blinds Casey’s eyes and Casey is awake, sucking in a huge breath and shooting to a sitting position, violently displacing Rupert’s arms. Everything is spinning, Casey’s heart is pounding, a horrible nauseous clench clawing up their throat. Across Casey’s skin, disgusting and violating, a viscous net of purple-black energy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER!!!!!! lol sorry


	10. Sweet (Whatever It Takes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert saves Casey's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see, trigger warnings for;  
> A heckin' lot of death mentions  
> Probably technically magical coercion of a minor (or two)  
> Demons (not real ones tho)  
> Implied drowning  
> Rupert's traumatic past

PREVIOUSLY

 

_A horrible sensation, panic, like falling backwards into blackness that blinds Casey’s eyes and Casey is awake, sucking in a huge breath and shooting to a sitting position, violently displacing Rupert’s arms. Everything is spinning, Casey’s heart is pounding, a horrible nauseous clench clawing up their throat. Across Casey’s skin, disgusting and violating, a viscous net of purple-black energy_

* * *

 

_Thursday, Second of October, 1997_

_Rupert Giles_

 

Rupert is ripped from sleep. Casey is sitting up in bed, breathing hard. A nightmare? Rupert pushes himself up on one arm, groggy and trying to think of what one does for nightmares, but then the energy hits him like a slap to the face; something has gone horribly wrong.

“Casey?” He asks, reaching out for him in the dark.

“Oh god,” Casey moans, rubbing at his arms. “She’s cursed me, get it _off--”_

“What?” Rupert sits up fully. That damned witch… “Do you know what curse, Casey?”

Casey whines, rocking and rubbing fretfully at his skin, but Rupert can tell he’s thinking about it. His mind races, ticking off curses-- time delayed, obviously, since Casey is still alive… A nauseating lurch of fear leaves him breathless. He could have woken up with Casey stone cold in his arms.

“No,” Casey says tremulously. “I d-don’t know it, it’s just _there_ and it’s staring at me, Rupert get it _off--”_

“I will,” He promises, already beginning to climb out of bed. “I will, my love, don’t worry.”

Casey whines again and then tumbles out of bed, rushing into the kitchen. Rupert doesn’t know how he can navigate so easily in the pitch black, but in seconds Casey is back, clutching a large container of salt between his hands. He hurries into the bathroom, and Rupert hears the sound of ripping cardboard and a rain of granules into the bathtub. By the time Rupert has put his clothes on and turned on the lights, Casey is lying curled up in the bathtub in a puddle of salt.

Rupert grabs his books and brings them into the bathroom, sitting on the floor next to the tub and beginning to research. His own spellbooks are either very dark or very light, with no in between. The curses he knows tend to be the instant-bloody-death variety. He asks Casey questions; what color is the spell? What form does it take? Is it hot or cold? Is it sentient? And all the clues Casey gives him point towards something Rupert has no hope of solving by himself. Every now and then Casey will scoop a handful of salt over himself the way an elephant showers itself with dirt; Rupert hopes that the inherent purification properties of salt will slow the curse; he’ll need the extra time.

In three hours, Rupert has deduced that the curse could be a great many things, and until he knows what the curse is he won’t be able to remove it. Either way, he’ll definitely need the witch’s spellbook and he’ll possibly need to freehand a countercurse himself. Witches such as this don’t generally devise countercurses along with their nasty spells; it’s a very good thing Rupert has a background in magic, or else he might not be prepared. Even still, he’s not sure if he knows how to do _this_ kind of magic. Casey makes a mournful little sound in the bathtub, and Rupert feels something harden in his chest. _Whatever it takes, I’ll do it._

By sunrise, Rupert has watched Casey slowly deteriorate from panicked to slurring and drunken, and a horrible fear has settled in his chest, battling with his logical mind. There is only one curse he knows of that fits the bill for this scenario; the Bloodstone Vengeance curse. Functionally, it is similar to ingesting a large amount of a gentle poison such as alcohol; so much so that the poison is actually effective as a poison, and in around twelve hours will kill the target. The very thought brings a shake to Rupert’s hands. This isn’t a curse that Rupert has in his books, but it’s one he’s heard of and one he knows, logically, he can handle. All he needs is the witch’s spellbook.

“Casey,” He says gently, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “Do you know where Amy lives?”

“No,” Casey mumbles, languishing in his salt. “That Willow girl does, though.”

“Willow?” _Shit, someone to find._

“She’za sweet lil’ girl,” Casey slurs. “Lil’ fluffy… smile….”

Desperate fear makes Rupert lightheaded. Casey is barely able to help him, but he _needs_ this information.

“What? Please, Casey, where do I find this girl?”

“School,” Casey says. “Always wif her duuuuuuumb friend _Xander._ Stupid….. Stupid.”

“And what does she look like?” Rupert asks, no longer hiding the shake in his voice and no longer caring. Casey’s too far gone to notice anyways.

“Red. Ssssssssso long and…. Red…. fluffy.”

Long, fluffy red hair? Rupert stands, flutters for a moment-- his hands are shaking so hard. He puts his book down and turns to the bath. Casey hums, looking blearily into the middle distance as he lays in the salt.

“I-it’s time to get up, Casey,” Rupert says.

The younger man obliges, sitting up laboriously and slipping in the salt. Rupert kneels and carefully helps Casey climb out of the tub, another ringing fear crowding his brain-- _If Casey falls and hits his head before I can lift the curse--_

But Casey doesn’t hit his head, merely stumbling out of the tub and into Rupert, molding to him with a pleased little noise.

“Come on,” Rupert says, tugging gently to guide Casey to the bedroom. The younger man is still half naked, salt sticking to his bare legs. Rupert leans down and gently brushes it away, and then sits Casey on the edge of the bed and pulls out a pair of jeans. Casey is easy to dress, boneless and silent. Rupert misses the usual spirited teasing. He considers for a moment if he should try and change Casey into one of his own shirts, as Casey doesn’t seem game to do so himself, but in the end he shies away from the thought of violating Casey’s privacy. Instead he rolls up the sleeves of his button down until Casey’s little hands poke through, and leaves it at that.

“Alright, my love,” He says, his hands ghosting over Casey’s hips, elbows, shoulders, shaking and desperate to do something. “School starts at seven, right?”

“mm- _hmm,"_ Casey responds, offering him a lolling, sloppy smile.

God, Rupert’s heart is breaking. _This is why we don’t get too close to our Slayers,_ he thinks. _So it doesn’t hurt when they die_. Desperately, he presses a kiss to Casey’s forehead.

_You won’t die. Not today. Not when I can save you._

Casey doesn’t eat very much when he’s like this, at least not by himself. He complies easily when Rupert takes the fork from his hand and feeds the younger man himself, though. Rupert wonders who exactly the curse is supposed to wreak vengeance upon; Casey, who is deeply out of it, or himself? Because every second that Casey’s guard is down, he relies so trustingly on Rupert and Rupert falls ever more deeply in love. It’s positively cruel.

A few minutes to seven, and Rupert loads Casey gently into the car. The drive to the high school is short and familiar, but oh so different from usual. Casey isn’t in his girl-getup, he isn’t leaning laconically back in his seat, rambling about possible leads and random tangents that inspire him. No, he’s quiet, swaying badly and occasionally offering a beautiful smile slightly to the left of Rupert, as if he’s seeing double.

Rupert parks across the street and looks hard out the window for a redheaded girl. There are a couple, and with every ginger Rupert spots the pain in his chest grows harsher. His hand begins to drum, back-and-forth back-and-forth on the wheel.

“Willow!” Yells Casey cheerfully, and Rupert jumps and smashes his forehead against the glass of the window. He glances at Casey, who is looking past him, beaming. He follows the line of sight to see a petite girl, long red hair, walking next to a taller boy. _Ah, the smile,_ Rupert realizes. _He meant her smile is fluffy, not her hair._

For a moment Rupert debates how he should intercept the girl-- but subtlety doesn’t matter right now. He takes Casey’s hand, kissing the younger man’s knuckles firmly.

“Stay here, love. I’ll be right back. Stay here for me.”

And he gets out of the car and strides across the street.

“Willow?” He calls, and the girl and her friend turn. The boy frowns at him suspiciously but Rupert doesn’t care; for the first time in twenty years, he actively and consciously flares his magic, wrapping it around the girl and compelling her compliance. She has a strong core, he notices, but she doesn’t fight him. She’s seen Casey in the car across the street.

“Willow, where does Amy live?”

Dreamily, Willow recites the other girl’s address.

“Wil, what the hell!” Cries the boy, turning to her, but Rupert has already released her and turned away. The boy is yelling at him but Rupert is reciting the address in his head; he crosses the street, gets into the car, and drives.

\---

They park outside of Amy’s house and Rupert gently helps Casey out of the car. He doesn’t let go of the younger man’s hand-- because he could wander off, he insists to himself. Not because Rupert is barely holding himself together, not at all. He knocks loudly on the door.

A brown-haired woman opens it, looking up at Rupert like a scared little mouse. Rupert knows this must be the witch’s true body; perhaps her daughter Amy resides in it, perhaps it’s simply empty and mindless. It doesn’t matter. Again he pushes his magic forward, harshly, and the woman stumbles backwards.

“Take me to the witch’s things,” Rupert commands.

The woman leads them upstairs, then upstairs again to the attic. Static clings to the air as Rupert steps inside what is obviously the witch’s sanctum, and Rupert lets his magic lash out across the room, shredding any lingering wards or magics. He hasn’t been this careless, this uninhibited, in a very long time, but fear and desperation and anger have pushed all thoughts of caution-- of _guilt--_ to the side. He lets go of Casey’s hand and strides throughout the attic, rustling through books and papers and shelves, throwing open cupboards and chests. One chest practically bursts open under his hands, a black cat leaping out. The animal scampers away, shying from Rupert’s barely contained magic, and Rupert finds-- _Yes._ It’s the right book. He flips through it, finding the notes on the Blood Vengeance spell but no notes on reversal. But this is enough. The original spell and incantation tell him more than enough, and he feels his magic swell like a tidal wave inside him. This is well within his area of expertise, and he will make the minor demons who laid this curse cower.

Suddenly, a gentle fuzz of magic blankets the room from behind Rupert. He whips around-- It’s coming from Casey, who is sitting on the floor with a hand out to the cat.

“Casey stop!” Rupert shouts, his heart leaping into overdrive. “You’re expending too much energy, you’ll speed up the curse--”

Casey is halfway through turning to look at him when he slumps, his face crumpling in exhaustion.

 _Oh, God..._ Casey’s own magic had forced the second half of the curse into effect-- Casey is now actively dying, and Rupert’s heart slams painfully in his chest. But he has the book.

Rage boils through him, rage at the witch and the demons she serves, and Rupert stands fully. He raids the witch’s equipment, casting a circle and raising energy with deceptively calm movements. Casey sits inside the circle with him; the witch’s body watches in fear from the doorway. Rupert will not hold back if she should attack; a small part of him hopes for it. When everything is ready, Rupert opens the book one last time and rechecks the demons’ names.

“Corsheth,” He shouts, projecting his voice and his magic into the Darkness. “Gilail! I call upon your unholy presences! As a vessel of Eyghon, I compel ye!”

His heart pounds as the attic darkens dramatically. A wind picks up and Casey leans into his legs, shielding his face from the flying debris. He can feel Dark eyes turning his way; he has invoked three names, two minor and one ancient. He is terrified, adrenaline soaring through his system, and he is empowered. He has called demons before.

“Corsheth, Gilail, make your presences known! The curses you have wrought, I command ye unravel; as a vessel of Eyghon, I compel ye!”

An unearthly wailing and moaning fills the attic, swirling with the wind. The demons have come, Rupert knows.

“Corsheth, Gilail, release your magics! As a vessel of Eyghon, I _compel ye!”_

Outside, although the sun still shines, thunder crashes and lightning strikes. Leaning against his legs, Casey slumps forward. In the hallway, the witch’s body staggers-- stumbles-- and looks up with black, lethal eyes.

Raising his own magics in a wave, Rupert scoops the two demons and their swirling energies back into the Dark Place, slamming the rent between dimensions closed. With a scream of fury, the witch raises her hand in a claw toward Rupert, but her magics ricochet off the wall of energy he’d raised for protection. Rupert’s magic is so much bigger-- so much stronger than hers. He could destroy her easily…. Casey looks up at him from the ground, eyes wide.

The rage in Rupert’s chest droops, his magic flagging with it. The witch charges them, screaming, and Rupert throws a spear of his magic into her head-- she crumples to the ground, still alive, still breathing, but her mind has been wiped. She won’t hurt anyone again.

Casey stammers, looking up at him. _Please, don’t let that be fear._ Rupert kneels and takes Casey’s face gently between his hands, examining the younger man for marks or signs that the curse is not gone.

“I-I’m fine, Rupert,” Casey manages.

“The curse is gone?”

“Yes,” Casey breathes. “H-how did you--?”

Rupert wants to kiss him, relief crashing through his system. He did it. Casey is safe, Casey won’t die.

“R-ru?” Casey asks, hesitantly.

 _A nickname._ Rupert pulls Casey into a crushing hug, swallowing down the tears that choke his throat, and Casey squeaks in his grasp and hugs him back, burying his face against Rupert’s shoulder. Casey is alive, and doesn’t seem afraid of Rupert for what he saw. Any sane person would be terrified that Rupert could so recklessly invoke demons but no, of course to Casey that wouldn’t be too much. _Maybe we’re both crazy_ , He thinks in slightly delirious humor.

Everything is going to be fine.

* * *

 

By the time they get home, Rupert is exhausted emotionally and physically. Magic takes a great deal out of even the most powerful witches, and Rupert hasn’t exactly been keeping his magic in good shape. The tremors in his hands are from exhaustion now, not from terror. Casey is quiet too.

When they enter the apartment, Casey heads straight into their room as Rupert makes his way to the kitchen for tea. He hears the bath run from the kitchen, and so declines to make tea for both of them; Casey’s body is likely very sore from the stress of the curse, and he’ll probably be in there a while. Indeed, Casey is in there a long while-- by the time Rupert’s tea is gone, he still hasn’t come out, and Rupert washes his mug and peeks into the bedroom timidly.

The bathroom door is wide open. Rupert can see clothes on the floor-- _his_ clothes, some of them.

“Casey?” He calls hesitantly, but the bathroom is silent.

 _Would he have left the bathroom door open on purpose?_ Rupert wonders, creeping further into his bedroom. He risks a glance-- but he can’t see Casey in the bathroom. Just the still top of the water.

“Casey?” He calls again, a little worried. He steps into the doorway of the bathroom and realizes that Casey _is_ in the bath-- curled up completely under the water, facing away from him. Rupert rushes to the edge of the bathtub, his hand plunging into the cold water to rest on Casey’s ribs-- the younger man jumps under his touch and surfaces with a measured gasp.

They don’t say anything, both trying to regulate their breathing. Rupert calms his heart slowly, aware that his hand is resting on Casey’s naked stomach and unable to pull away-- the skin contact is something he needs desperately right now. When Casey has slowed his breath, he slides slowly back under the water, and he takes Rupert’s hand in his and curls around it, letting a little stream of bubbles up from his nose so Rupert knows he hasn’t drowned. Rupert is pulled further against the side of the tub, and his sleeve is wet and cold, but he doesn’t care. Casey looks so extremely pale under the water.

After a minute or so, Rupert tugs on their joined hands and Casey floats up to the surface.

“The water is cold,” Rupert says.

“Doesn’ matter,” Casey mumbles.

“You’ll fall ill, Casey.”

Casey sinks below the surface, closing his eyes for a moment before sitting up fully, goose flesh breaking out over his skin as soon as it touches the air. Rupert helps him step out of the water; his skin is slippery, and Rupert thinks he must have dissolved all that salt into the bathwater instead of washing it out first. He wraps a towel around Casey, who is already shivering, and Casey huddles against him.

They stand still, Casey’s hair soaking the front of Rupert’s shirt and Rupert doesn’t care. Eventually Casey begins to dry himself, and Rupert lets him, going back to his room to trade in his wet day clothes for sweat pants and a T-shirt; they won’t be going anywhere today. Casey comes out in a towel and fishes another of Rupert’s shirts from the hamper, putting it on seemingly without modesty. Truthfully, Rupert’s shirt is large enough on him to cover everything, but the important thing is that Rupert _knows_ what’s under it. Then Casey slips on some underwear and Rupert can’t even be disappointed, because for just a few moments Casey was wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Are you hungry?” Rupert asks, but Casey shakes his head.

Neither of them are, so they cuddle up on the couch with several blankets instead, Casey lying down against the back and Rupert pinning him in-- the position they were in the very first time they slept together. They don’t speak, but every few seconds Rupert’s arms tighten fractionally around Casey. The panic and the fear and the preemptive grief of the day are coming back now that everything’s quiet and this time Rupert can’t stop himself from crying.

This has all been too much, and hits far too close to home. Old, very old memories that Rupert never wants to think about resurface-- a girl’s beautiful face, blood dripping down it has her head was ripped apart, the lorophage bearing down on Rupert and forcing him to relive his most horrible memories-- Except now he is older and has so many more horrible memories, and the pain of losing someone is fresh because he almost just lost Casey like he lost her so long ago. Rupert finally cries away his guilt over not saving his first love from that demon, cries away the heart-stopping fear that he might not be able to save Casey from them either, and throughout Casey holds him and lets him cry. It takes a long time for the tears to dry up-- Rupert hasn’t allowed himself to do this since-- no, he doesn’t need to think about more bad memories right now.

Eventually he is able to release his tight hold on Casey and pull back enough to kiss him, tasting the salt on his lips from the bath, and the salt from Rupert’s tears, and-- salt from Casey’s tears as well, because Casey had cried with him. Rupert never wants to stop, never wants to let go of Casey, but eventually they have to breathe and break apart, gasping for air with shakey, tear-stuttering lungs.

“I was so scared,” Rupert whispers, and then he lets out a sardonic little laugh. “I-I could be fired for caring so much about you.”

Casey kisses him again, hard, clinging to him and biting harshly into his lower lip. A small rebellion, a small “fuck you” to the Council, and Rupert crushes Casey to him and kisses back just as fiercely. Then he pulls away, unable to stop the question that’s bothering him.

“Did I scare you?”

Casey looks at him with hooded eyes, lashes long and dark from crying. “You _saved_ my life. I was impressed.”

“I-I summoned demons,” Rupert argues gently. “I ripped apart our dimension and essentially murdered that despicable woman.”

Casey shrugs. “And I could tell you could have done much worse. You held back. I was impressed.”

Rupert examines Casey’s face but he seems to be sincere. His tone is certainly humorless.

“Really?”

“Your magic is red,” Casey says, as if the answer is so obvious it doesn’t even bear saying. “A beautiful bright, orange red like rust. Powerful and clean and sweet.”

They look at each other, two pairs of green eyes, and then Rupert leans in and kisses Casey very, very gently. Sweetly.

It’s not even noon by the time they’ve fallen asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Old English pronoun bits, thou/thee/thy/thine is actually singular. So Rupert uses the plural, ye/you/your/yours.  
> He also happens to call three times, a common precaution when dealing with supernatural beings such as fae, in order to properly seal the magic. He does this in the original incantation in the episode as well. In this case, even though the demon he compels them by is a relatively chill guy (being a sleep demon and all), he is still Ancient and thus pulls rank, so Corsheth and Gilail have to listen to his vessel or else risk Eyghon's wrath.  
> I'm writing Rupert as fairly powerful-- he was, after all, into some pretty heavy magics as a teen and we know his old friend Ethan is powerful as well. Ironically, he could easily fill the "combat witch" role Casey worried they could not.  
> (Witch is a gender neutral term, I refuse to use the term "warlock" I don't care if it's canon.)


	11. Blind Spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert does something very, very stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay hi,  
> Um,  
> M A S S I V E trigger warnings for this chapter, good lord. Rupert is a fucking dingus and does some really fucking stupid shit which was NOT fun to write. If you are triggered by  
> \- alcohol drinking  
> \- drunkenness  
> \- self harm  
> \- blood  
> \- depressive thought spirals  
> I highly recommend you do NOT read this chapter. Suffice to say Rupert is a bloody idiot in both the British way and the literal way.

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“Your magic is red,” Casey says, as if the answer is so obvious it doesn’t even bear saying. “A beautiful bright, orange red like rust. Powerful and clean and sweet.”_

_They look at each other, two pairs of green eyes, and then Rupert leans in and kisses Casey very, very gently. Sweetly._

_It’s not even noon by the time they’ve fallen asleep._

* * *

 

_Thursday, Second of October, 1997_

_Rupert Giles_

 

Rupert wakes up in pain. Every muscle in his body is sore, but more than that is an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt in a long time. He shifts a little, trying not to disturb Casey, and the pain in his chest flares sharply.

It’s guilt. A guilt that nearly consumed him the last time he… He sighs quietly. _The last time I betrayed my sacred duty as a Watcher._ It steals his breath away, all the worse now for the fact that he really _is_ a Watcher, like he wasn’t then. Now he really does have a responsibility, a direct responsibility not just to some abstract destiny or to his family and the Council, but to the person lying in his arms.

And God, he had just-- gone completely rogue. In so many ways. Never mind kissing his Slayer, he has summoned bloody _demons._ Watchers are non-combatants, they _train_ the combatants, they don’t go out slinging powerful magic and messing with dangerous beasts. He had given up practicing magic for that very reason when he finally accepted his destiny as a Watcher, and now he’s just…

Casey shifts in his arms, groaning a little, and the guilt stabs him again. He’s doing Casey a disservice, getting this emotionally attached. _Stupid_ of him-- if he was just thinking with his brain instead of his-- If he was just _thinking,_ he would already have had Casey well prepared to fight a witch. But no, his focus has been on this selfish little bliss. Casey snuggles a little into his chest.

Grief surges through him, on top of the guilt. What should he do? Or more accurately, what _will_ he do? Is he capable of denying himself this? Because Rupert knows exactly what he _should_ do and by all rights what Casey should do too, but he doesn’t think either of them will.

_We’re both being so selfish. And so short sighted. I am born and bred disposable, Casey is by nature temporary. Why is he willing to put himself in danger by getting closer to me than he needs to?_

Rupert suspects he knows the answer, and it hurts him all the more.

\---

They go about their afternoon slowly. Rupert is badly sore from magic and more than that he’s simply emotionally overwrought. Casey still seems to be feeling the effects of the curse, or it’s lingering energy; he walks with a limp Rupert hadn’t noticed before and constantly rubs at his skin. At first the silence seems natural, as they’re both recuperating, but as they settle in more after their hellish morning and couch nap, Rupert begins to feel more and more restless.

Casey _shouldn’t_ be this relaxed in his presence. His incompetence put him in danger, and more than that his _idiotic_ attachment had put in peril the whole town. In his mind Rupert hopes vainly for Casey to show some kind of sense, to acknowledge that what Rupert did was stupid and that he’s failed in his duty as a Watcher, but Casey never does and every second he waits Rupert gets more frustrated.

“Casey,” He eventually says as they sit at the table, and Casey looks up at him with round eyes. Perhaps his tone was too sharp, but he’s too irritated to care. “Please, _please_ tell me you are not as blasé about this as you seem.”

“About what?” Casey squints.

“About--!” Rupert stands abruptly, pacing behind the couch and running his hands distractedly through his hair. Casey flinches at his sudden movement.

“About the fact that as far as Watchers go I seem to be doing the opposite of my job! I should have had you prepared _weeks_ ago for a witch, human adversaries are the most basic of-- A-and not only that, but my method of solving my mistake is to endanger the whole bloody town? To endanger _you,_ if I had made some mistake or miscalculation in my spell? Tell me this bothers you at least somewhat!”

Casey throws his hands up. “I said it doesn’t! We already covered this Rupert, you didn’t scare me, you held back, I-I don’t think you’re-- irresponsible or evil or-- whatever!”

“You should!” Rupert yells.

Casey stands so sharply from the table that his chair is thrown backwards onto the floor. For a fraction of a second Rupert is scared he’s gone too far-- But Casey doesn’t make a move towards Rupert. He's trembling with suppressed…. Something, and when he speaks his voice is shaking but low and calm.

“I trust you, Ru. And I thought you said just yesterday that you trust my instincts but-- I guess not, huh?”

“I trust your instincts with _cases,_ Casey, but with me you seem to have an enormous blind spot!”

“And you don't?”

“What?”

Rupert blinks, not quite comprehending Casey’s meaning, but Casey strides past him into the bedroom. Rupert stands dumbly in the living room and in moments Casey is out again, more or less fully dressed and-- and carrying his old leather jacket.

“Casey, wait--”

Casey is already out the door.

 _Shit._ Rupert paces for a second, rushes to the front door and throws it open-- but Casey is gone, and night is falling, and he slams the door shut in frustration. _Shit._

\---

Casey hasn’t come home by nine, and Rupert can’t bring himself to sleep. He putters around his apartment aimlessly-- _Uselessly--_ with a combination of worry, frustration, guilt and anger brewing in his chest. He tries putting on some music to calm down, but it just makes him angrier. Tea is flavorless no matter how much sugar he heaps into it. Rupert is scared to even touch his books lest he hurt them in some fit of rage.

 _Disgusting._ Fearing that he might damage one of his own prized possessions. What kind of person is he that that’s something on his mind? It’s eleven and his hands are shaking and desperation has begun to set in. His eyes fall to a bottle of liquor.

One AM, and he’s tried to pace himself but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Casey isn’t coming home. He cries bitterly to himself, regretting his words and gripping his glass tightly between both hands, wishing he could crush it like Casey could.

_“I trust your instincts with **cases,** Casey, but with me you seem to have an enormous blind spot!” _

_“And you don't?”_

Does he?

Two AM and he’s properly drunk, his vision swimming. His eyes fall to the tattoo on the inside of his arm.

Sloppily, he tries to touch it-- misses, the first time, but then finds it the second and spends a few seconds… minutes? Tracing the black ink. Memories boil back, of the pain as Ethan tattooed it into his skin, the glorious euphoria as the Mark had enabled him to act as vessel for Eyghon, of Thomas’s face…. _Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting._ And he gave up his own code of ethics never to summon a demon again on a-- a fucking whim? Where there no other options? _I could have found the bloody bitch and tortured her ‘til she cracked,_ Rupert thinks, aware his old Estuary accent is slipping back into his thoughts and hating himself all the more for it. _Disgusting._ It’s not even his real accent. God, he was pathetic.

Just a lost little boy, weak in character, looking for the baddest of the lot to take him in. Playing cool with his extensive occult knowledge, playing player with the ladies in those underground clubs and with Ethan before-- during-- after rituals. The very thought of Ethan, of what he turned into and what he turned Rupert into, fills him with an unholy rage.

With a scream of grief and fury, Rupert flings his glass into the wall, shattering it.

_"You seem to have an enormous blind spot!”_

His own words, ringing through his head in Casey's voice. Hazily, his brain connects the sparkling shards with the touch-memory of Ethan’s hands tattooing the Mark of Eyghon into his arm. He looks down at the tattoo, ugly and black and swimming formlessly before his eyes, and then he slides out of his chair and crawls across the floor to the shattered glass.

He’s not able to stand right now, but it doesn’t matter. Clumsily, cutting up his hand, he selects the largest point of glass from the pile. It’s beautifully curved, the dull edge of the rim of the glass fitting against Rupert’s palm as the broken edges form a point. The dull lighting in his apartment makes the sharp bits sparkle. Rupert draws the point up to level with his tattoo slowly, carefully lining up his shot.

His head swimming, Rupert begins to push, slowly. The glass is incredibly sharp and pierces easily through his skin, through the center of the tattoo, but it’s not enough. He pushes harder, gritting his teeth against the pain as tears sting his eyes and blood begins to drip down his arm, and _still_ it’s not enough, the Mark is still there and he can still feel Ethan's--

He pulls the shard back and stabs hard at the tattoo once-- twice, cutting more than stabbing now-- thrice, and he’s sure it must be ripping into muscle but he’s gone numb to the pain. Violently, desperately, Rupert mutilates his skin, shredding away the memories and the sins of his past and letting them splatter onto the floor with his blood. Only when his hand is coated red does Rupert come back to himself a little; the glass shard tumbles from limp fingers and he feels himself listing to the side. It doesn’t hurt to impact with the floor, not like it should. Rupert is so dizzy, and vaguely he’s aware that alcohol and blood loss are a bad mix. But his vision is blurring and fading to black at the edges, and Rupert is so, so tired… Gratefully, he slips into the unfeeling blackness.

* * *

 

_Friday, Third of October, 1997_

 

Once again, Rupert awakens feeling like shit. His arm is a fiery, throbbing distraction from the cloying nausea in his throat, and from the dull, aching throb in his head. And again, the pain isn’t just physical; as he lies on the floor, amid shards of glass and dried alcohol and blood, breathtaking guilt once again stabs Rupert through the chest. Quietly, he allows himself a few tears. It feels like a part of him has died, somehow; as if he’s finally accepted an unpleasant truth. He isn’t quite sure what that truth _is,_ though, and right now he’s too tired to care.

_"You seem to have an enormous blind spot."_

Panic flares for a moment as Rupert realizes Casey might come home to this-- but… No. Casey left, last night, and didn’t seem keen on returning. He hopes the Slayer went someplace safe, at least. Getting himself killed while his Watcher is getting plastered would really be the last straw. Rupert pries himself from the floor slowly. His injured arm, coated in blood, has dried stuck to the floorboards. Now that he’s actually able to see somewhat clearly Rupert feels his stomach leap at the damage he did to himself-- many of the cuts are far too deep, far deeper than they needed to be even if his intention _had_ been to destroy the Mark. The tattoo is obliterated, that’s for certain, but so is a good portion of the skin of Rupert’s arm. He cringes, knowing he’ll eventually have to see a doctor for this. He’s never had the hands for stitches, even if he does technically know how.

Carefully, Rupert pulls himself to standing, little shards of glass tinkling down from his clothes. He shambles into the bathroom and begins to wash the red and brown stains from his skin. There’s a lot, fully coating his right hand and most of his left arm between shoulder and wrist, and in his washing Rupert accidentally agitates several of his wounds. They begin to bleed again, and unable to really treat them Rupert wraps them halfheartedly in gauze and hopes that will hold.

Next he changes his clothes, pulling on proper trousers and a loose button down, although he doesn’t feel up to moving his injured arm enough to change out of his bloodstained white T-shirt. Reluctantly, he puts on socks and shoes, so that he can clean up the glass without further injury.

Once the glass is up, Rupert stares at the rather large bloodstain with a sigh. He doesn’t have a bucket, so he gets a large mixing bowl from the kitchen instead and spends several minutes sat on the floor, scrubbing the dried alcohol and blood from the surface. Then, he upends a small box of baking soda onto the stain, spreads the powder out to cover it, and spends more than an hour with an unused toothbrush dipped in a mug of vinegar, scrubbing his own blood from the floorboards. It’s slow going, and when he finishes it’s certainly not a perfect job. There’s still some discoloration to the wood, some indication that some kind of dark liquid had seeped in there. But it’s close enough; he knows Casey will notice it immediately, being Casey, but most people would never look twice.

_"An enormous blind spot."_

Rupert stands with a groan and checks the time. Nearly noon, and he still hasn’t eaten but at this point he’s not sure he can. His stomach is in knots and his throat is constricted by worry. He tries to have some tea, but it just makes him feel sick.

_"Enormous."_

He needs to find Casey.

He gathers a few things and leaves his apartment, not bothering to take the car. Casey had left on foot, and Rupert needs to be able to go where Casey would go. The only problem is he has no idea where that could be. He’s never been homeless, he doesn’t have Casey's instincts. This is a shot in the dark, but Rupert has to find him. Has to know he’s safe, even if he won’t come back home.

_Not home. Just back. People like us don’t get to have homes._

By the afternoon, Rupert has combed a large portion of Sunnydale. His bandages have long since soaked through with blood but Rupert doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about the looks he’s getting from the citizens of the town. He hasn’t seen hide or hair of Casey and desperation and grief grip him fiercely. He doesn’t know what to do.

It’s another night Rupert spends alone, another night he spends awake fearful of the consequences of his actions. He should never have spoken that way to Casey, should never have let his insecurities get the better of him. If nothing else, he should have pursued them quietly and not involved Casey at all. It was a selfish whim, trying to get Casey to agree with him, trying to make it personal.

_"You seem to have a blind spot."_

Does he? God, it was a weakness he shouldn’t have indulged. Because it hurts, it hurts so badly not to have Casey’s presence filling up his apartment, to have night fall knowing he won’t have Casey in his bed, in his shirt, curled up against his chest all night. And it hurts more that he thinks he knows exactly why Casey isn’t phased by his dark talents, why Casey is willing to let him make mistakes. As a Watcher and a Slayer, he would not be allowed that kind of understanding or leniency. But as a partner….

Desperately, Rupert hopes against hope both that he is right and Casey loves him, and that he is wrong and Casey does not. Because if Casey does love him then it’s fully too late to salvage this, fully too late for them to fill the roles they are supposed to. If Casey loves him then Rupert will not be able to stay impartial; he will not be able to let Casey die. It’s purely selfish, purely selfish that if his affection is one way Rupert will be able to save himself and save this situation. Desperately, he wishes for both.

_What is it that I'm blind to?_

A knock on the door startles Rupert badly, and he jumps, gasping as he’s ripped from his thoughts. He stands shakily and strides across the room, opening the door to find not Casey as he had vaguely hoped but Angelus-- and as the night air hits his face, Rupert realizes that he had cried again, and it’s too late now to wipe the tears away because Angelus is examining him carefully, taking in his disheveled and bloodied appearance.

“I smelled the blood from the street,” The vampire explains quietly. “I came to check if you’re okay, but…”

“Have you seen Casey?” Rupert asks, his voice rasping from disuse. “H-he-- He left last night, I tried to find him but I--”

“No,” Replies the vampire. “No, I haven’t seen him. What happened, Watcher?”

“My name is Giles,” Rupert says absently. “W-we had a-- a fight, I suppose-- It was-- _Stupid_ and Casey stormed out and I haven’t seen him since and I--”

“Alright,” Angelus soothes. “I can find him, no worries.”

“You can?” Rupert is already turning, grasping for his jacket.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, man?” Angelus asks, looking over him skeptically. “Not to be crass but you look like shit.”

“Casey is more important,” Rupert responds, pulling on his jacket and stepping out the door, closing it behind him. “Let’s go.”

\---

_"You have a blind spot..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to binge The Velvet Underground to survive writing this I hope you know. A very certain song obviously relevant to this chapter on repeat for hours (and yes it will play in later in the fic I'm a fucking sucker for mood music)  
> Of course, there's also another song that will be relevant from an earlier album (I would be delighted if those not in the know are able to guess which two songs I refer to). Think of it this way; the first is a song from Rupert to Casey. The second is a song from Casey to Rupert.


	12. Confusing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey takes some time alone to think.

PREVIOUSLY

 

_“I trust you, Ru. And I thought you said just yesterday that you trust my instincts but-- I guess not, huh?”_

_“I trust your instincts with **cases,** Casey, but with me you seem to have an enormous blind spot!” _

_“And you don't?”_

* * *

 

_Thursday, Second of October, 1997_

_Casey_

 

“What?”

Casey has had enough. They storm past Rupert into the bedroom, who stands blinking as he tries to process what Casey had said. _I don’t have a blind spot when it comes to you, Rupert, but you certainly do._

It’s quick work to pull on jeans, socks, and boots. Casey only hesitates for a fraction of a second before fishing their leather jacket out of the closet-- they haven’t really worn it since they moved in with Rupert, but they’ll be out all night and Casey needs that little bit of familiarity. A look of panic crosses Rupert’s face when Casey emerges. Good.

“Casey, wait--”

Casey ignores him and slips out the front door.

The sun is starting to set as Casey walks. Upset boils in their chest, agitating the unclean curse energy that lingers on their skin. A little desperately, Casey scrubs at their arm. Why is Rupert so up in his head about this stupid-- so he made a mistake, big deal. Casey already has a vague dislike of the Watcher’s Council from their reading, and now it’s grown stronger. Yeah, maybe Casey should have been able to handle the witch by now. But maybe that’s on Casey neglecting their own magical studies, and not Rupert. _Maybe_ it’s down to the fact that Casey has always consciously avoided working with stronger magics like personal wards. _It was a stupid fucking weakness and it wasn’t something I could afford to indulge, and yet I did, and now look what’s happened._

A shape catches Casey’s attention from the corner of their eye; a tree, silhouetted by the setting sun, it’s leaves orange and falling but Casey would know this tree anywhere. It’s a rowan, a tree emblematic of protection, and when it has fruit the berries are a bright, strong orange-red color. This is a tree that has followed Casey throughout their life, and Casey has come to know it as a symbol of the land fae who watch over them.

Casey doesn’t approach the tree, but even from a distance they can feel the presence of the fae who watch it. They have seen Casey, and Casey lays their magic out in a pulse for them to read. In a moment, the fae’s attention goes from defensive to neutral acknowledgement, and they indicate for Casey to walk further down the road.

Casey continues down the road. A crow flies overhead, and Casey feels the shade of darkness he pulls behind him as the sun finally dips below the horizon. Ahead, the greyed grasses of the cemetery stretch.

Everything is very familiar to Casey, all of a sudden. Every magic that had protected Casey in their life on the streets is alive again, coating the air with rapt attention. A cat watches them from a fence post, it’s eyes glowing greenish yellow. Shivering presences glide alongside Casey-- the ghosts who had used to haunt them. The fae of the rowan, now behind them, watch with autumn-colored eyes. Deep beneath the earth and up in the sky, a kaleidoscope of colors glow.

The cemetery is cold at night, but Casey doesn’t shiver. The cold itself is an entity here, and as the uniform blue of twilight covers the word Casey’s mind detects bright lights-- more fae, illuminating the area to those with the power to see. Casey walks between the graves, feeling ghosts and fae brush against their skin, the cold silver and neon yellow energies sparking against the lingering curse and muting out the purple touch by touch. A grave with a large headstone asks Casey to stay, so Casey sits down against it and looks out into the deepening night.

For a while, Casey allows the friendly presence of the grave, the fae, the ghosts and the night to clear their mind. Their eyes become unseeing as they simply exist, letting the entities around them feed off the curse on their flesh until the last sparks of purple energy have faded. When it is finally gone Casey feels a deep calm fill them, and slowly their eyes refocus.

Night has fully fallen. Casey’s skin is numb from cold, but Casey doesn’t mind. They’re used to being cold, and in a way the sensation is comforting. Warmth brings a pain to their chest because warmth reminds them of Rupert.

Large, glowing eyes melt out of the darkness between the graves, level with Casey. A thrill of fear fills Casey’s chest as they begin to make out the barely-visible form of a black canine, his fur deeper than the night and nearly invisible in the surrounding shadows. The dog moves his head, and in a strangely lightheaded moment Casey sees a trace effect, three muzzles, three glowing pairs of eyes… They relax. This is a guardian, and he sits between the graves in front of Casey and looks at them with his sweet doggy eyes.

“Thank you for what you do here,” Casey says to the dog lowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything for you.”

He acknowledges their thanks and their apology calmly. His energy is warm; he knows Casey needs to talk.

Casey sighs heavily and looks up at the sky. There are not many stars visible from Sunnydale; above them is a boring matte black.

“I don’t understand,” Casey says quietly to the dog. “I-- I don’t understand anything anymore.”

He invites them to elaborate, and Casey takes a deep breath and holds it before letting it out slowly.

“Everything happens for a reason, and I know that.”

Yes, he agrees.

“But it seems completely nonsensical for someone like me to have this…. _divine_ duty.”

The dog seems skeptical. Images form in Casey’s mind; a teen Casey, alone on the streets. Casey, winning trophies in Tae Kwon Do as a tween. Casey, six years old, leaving tiny gifts for the fae of the rowan that grew in their yard.

“So I’m qualified,” Casey mutters. “A divine duty requires more than study and you know it. Why _me?”_

The dog taps his paw on the earth, and the image of a dimly lit circular stone chamber with a glowing chalice in the middle takes Casey’s vision. Three cloaked figures stand mostly obscured in the arches of the chamber, their attention riveted on Casey. Casey sighs.

“Okay, fine. I don’t want to be a Greek hero, friend, I won’t pretend to follow the path of one.”

He gives the impression that this is just as well. He and Casey both know that Casey doesn't strictly _need_ the answer to that question.

“I just don’t get it,” Casey mutters. “So I’m qualified, so I don’t need to know why me, okay. Why give me _him?_ Was that necessary?”

 _Of course it was,_ Says a deep, rich voice.

It’s not a physical voice; it’s projected to Casey from somewhere far away, from everywhere and nowhere at once, but Casey knows this voice and it’s owner.

“Was it?” Casey presses aloud.

 _Little one,_ Sighs the voice. _You know as well as I do that you deserve happiness._

“I know it _logically,”_ Casey mutters. “In practice however it seems to be a really bad idea.”

The voice laughs, and a little warmness brightens Casey’s magic. _You **deserve** to be happy, child, no amount of your pouting will convince us otherwise. So what if it’s hard? Do you really want to disappoint ‘Dite, giving up on her like this?_

A flash of guilt and Casey sighs. “No. I appreciate that she tries so hard for me. I really do.”

_And she deserves that same amount of effort in return, doesn’t she?_

“Yes, of course she does.”

Casey feels a smug, older-brotherly satisfaction radiate from the voice.

“Well okay, fine, but why is he so--”

_He’s a water sign._

Casey scoffs, sitting upright and wishing they could smack the voice. It chuckles.

“That’s all you’re gonna give me, isn’t it?”

_Yes. This is for you to figure out, little one, your Father and I can’t do all the hard work for you._

Casey sighs, slumping back against the headstone. “I know.”

They sit for a while “together,” Casey and the warm presence and the friendly black dog. Eventually the presence gives Casey the impression of standing to leave.

 _Remember that we love you, little one,_ It says. _No matter what. We are always watching, and we are always proud of you._

“I love you too,” Casey whispers, tearing up a little. “All of you.”

The presence flows away, and the black dog lies down on the grass. Casey lets out a shaky breath.

The dog sends a reinforcing message; they do love Casey, he insists. He’s seen it.

“I know,” Casey whispers to him.

His ears perk up, and doggishly he sends the impression of being given a gift. Casey can’t help but laugh a little.

“Of course, friend. Anything I can get you.”

The image of an old, heavily cast silver coin fills Casey’s vision, and Casey nods. A selfless gift, then, for the dog’s charges and not for himself.

“I’ll bring as many as I can, I know the fare.” _And the ferryman._

* * *

 

_Friday, Third of October, 1997_

 

Casey spent the whole night in the graveyard, the oppressive gathering of fae and the dead keeping any monsters away. As the sun begins to rise and the friendly black dog fades from view, Casey picks themself up from the grave. They press their palm to the headstone, thanking fondly the spirit who offered his resting place to Casey last night, before making their way back into town.

Being awake in the daylight has always bothered Casey. It’s too bright, for one thing-- Especially here in sunny California. For another, it’s loud. People always bustling around, looking at you with their eyes and their expectations. Casey hates those kinds of expectations; shallow ones like “have styled hair” and “smell nice.” Saving the word kind of expectations are fine, Casey can handle those. But these are just annoying.

They wander deep into the dingiest parts of Sunnydale, following their nose away from the warm sunlight and greasy food smells into the cool, moist back alleys. These places smell of damp earth and concrete, and garbage, and dead things; it’s a particular smell, but it’s more tolerable to Casey than the pungent aromas of the nice face of Sunnydale. This is where the bums are, too; other people like Casey used to be, huddled in the shadows on ragged blankets, some with a dog sitting between their legs, some hugging their bags or each other. These people feel gentler to Casey than the ones who walk in the daylight; hardened souls with gentle hearts. Casey would give to them if they could, but they don’t have anything on them to give. Instead, they drop a light misting of their magic behind them as they walk, pushing for the uplifting and fresh green of spring; perhaps it will only make them feel a little better, perhaps it will bring them a little luck. Casey knows that anything more than what they have now will be a blessing, even if they don’t know where it came from.

Casey finds a relatively pleasant spot behind a dumpster and crawls inside. The air is balmy, damp and warmed from laundry vents even though on the street the air is brisk. Casey lies down on the ground, curling up on their side, and sleeps.

\---

Casey wakes up in the afternoon, calm and relaxed-- and lonely, but that can’t be helped right now. Vaguely they wonder if that easy sleep had been a gift from the voice’s brother; sweet of him, if it was.

Hungry, Casey scrounges in a few dumpsters for food and manages to find what, for them, is a decent meal. Some bruised fruit, a whole loaf of unmoldy bread. No safe protein, but carbs will keep Casey going for now. They share the leftover food with some of the homeless people near them before moving on.

They walk deeper into the seedy side of town, guilt gnawing at their insides. This is the first time Casey and Rupert have really fought about something, and Casey has no idea what to expect. All their experience with overemotional adults comes from their parents, who had not wanted Casey to return. But Rupert had not seemed to want Casey to go-- _Why the hell was he freaking out, then? God he’s so confusing._

By sunset, all Casey has determined is that they have no idea what’s expected of them or what they should do. Their head is dizzy with conflicting ideas and emotions-- g _o back, stay away, his fault, my fault? ….Assigning blame is counterproductive. But he’s **so confusing!**_ They wander around in the rough vicinity of the Bronze, not really patrolling, just walking and trying to get their head on straight.

In a dark alley, Casey is suddenly aware of the vampire Angelus with his odd mostly-invisible energy-- and behind him, the chaotic red of Rupert. Casey whirls around just as the two men enter the other end of the alley, and for a very brief moment they almost dive for a hiding spot. But Angelus would be able to find them…. And it’s too late anyways, they’ve been spotted.

“Oh, thank God,” Rupert mutters quietly, his voice barely floating down the alley to Casey’s ears.

“I told you I could find him,” Angelus says, sounding a little offended, but Rupert is already hurrying past him.

Casey takes in the irregular shake in Rupert’s limbs, their mind automatically assigning low blood sugar as the cause, before their brain is wiped blank. Rupert’s white T-shirt is rumpled and stained, and bright red drips down the fingers of one of his hands onto the grimy alley floor. Casey’s pulse feels strong enough to shake their body.

“What happened?” They demand of each other at the same time, but Casey isn’t having it and cuts in before Rupert can speak again.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Rupert stammers for a moment, looking down at his arm. “I--I-- Oh, um….” He deflates, looking guilty.

Terror strikes through Casey like a lightning bolt. Did he…? Unbidden, their magic begins to leak into the air, a sparkling mist of palest emerald green. Rupert shivers a little as the mist boils over him; he can feel it even if he can’t see it, Casey knows. Angelus, who is standing farther back down the alley, takes a moment to feel Casey’s magic, but when it reaches him he jumps as if Casey has pinched his ass.

When Casey speaks their voice is very, very low. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Casey doesn’t mean by accident, and they all know it. Angelus swallows, looking nervously between them as Rupert grasps for an answer.

“I-- I didn’t mean to, I--”

Casey’s magic boils down the alley in a cold wave, fury raising inside them. Memories of their best friend from high school blind them; her unhealed cuts. Did _she_ mean to? Because whether she meant it or not she cut too deep to take it back. Rupert cringes, shielding his face from the mist with his good arm as Angelus jumps and yelps behind him.

“I didn’t-- I didn’t _mean_ to, Casey, I was drunk and I wasn’t think--”

Another wave of magic.

“What is wrong with you?” Casey hisses, already guilty for how they’re speaking but unable to hold it in. “What is _wrong_ with you? You throw this big fucking hissy fit, you get drunk and starve yourself and hurt yourself and-- for what? Jesus _Christ--”_

Angelus has been sidling his way further into the alley, turned sideways as if Casey’s magic is physical waves of water that he has to wade through. Rupert opens and closes his mouth, looking desperate and shattered and unable to explain himself.

“Go home,” Angelus says quietly to Rupert. “I’ll keep an eye on him, you just--”

“Oh you will, will you?” Casey snaps. They turn to storm away, and finally Rupert finds his voice.

“Wait!” Casey pauses, their back turned. “W-where-- Where did you go? Last night? W-were you safe?”

Casey sighs heavily, waving their arms generally at the back alleys of Sunnydale. “Yeah, I was safe.”

“You slept _outside?_ You of all people should know--”

Casey gives a scream of frustration and stomps off before Rupert can finish his sentence.

Casey can feel Angelus trotting up behind them like an annoying puppy, but they don’t acknowledge him. They walk in uncompanionable silence for a while, aimlessly, before Angelus says,

“My place is near here.”

“Great,” Growls Casey.

Angelus sighs and comes up next to Casey, gently taking their wrist to lead them. Casey freezes, yanking against his grasp, but Angelus is strong and they stare each other down for a moment. He gives a little tug.

“I live right here. C’mon.”

In the end, Casey is too done with everything to resist. Angelus leads them into an underground apartment, which is modernly and masculinely decorated. It’s so sparse it almost looks like some upscale clothing boutique, Casey thinks, except without all the racks of clothing. Angelus walks a little into his apartment, spreading his hands and offering a little smile, as if to say, “ta da!”

Casey scoffs.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The vampire offers as Casey looks around. He opens his fridge, then snaps it shut again. “Uh, I have water?”

“I’m fine,” Casey says shortly.

“Okay…” He seems to hesitate, then wanders a little closer to Casey.

“I-I went by to check this evening when the sun went down and… Smelled the blood. He was a mess when he answered the door, Casey.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What… What happened? He said you had a fight?”

Casey is too frustrated to even consider not talking about it. “A fight! That’s what he called it, a fight? The fucking-- _Idiot--”_

Angelus sidles past Casey and sits on his couch, and Casey plonks down into an armchair facing him.

“It wasn’t a fight, it was a fucking-- a fucking-- Ugh!”

“Maybe start from the beginning,” The vampire suggests helpfully.

So Casey does. They explain the cheerleading case, the terrible witch who had possessed her daughter and was cursing schoolchildren-- who had felt so horribly like Casey’s own mother, and had compounded that impression by cursing Casey themself. They explain how the curse had slowly begin killing them, how frantic Rupert had been and the lengths he had gone to to save them. For all that he’s an annoying little shit, Angelus is a good listener, and his dark brown eyes are sincere.

“So it wasn’t a fight!” Casey finishes, after what has surely been an hour or more of talking. “He-- He’s just, _freaking out_ over what I already told him was no _fucking_ big deal, and I have no idea what I did or what I’m supposed to do or--!”

Angelus nods, and his eyes go distant as he considers his words.

“I think,” He says slowly, “That you don’t have the whole picture. And you can’t, not without Giles telling you what you’re missing himself.”

“I know that,” Casey mutters, a little petulantly.

He smiles. “Well yeah, you do. So you know what you gotta do next.”

Casey groans, collapsing over their legs and hanging their arms down to the floor. Angelus chuckles.

Casey does know. They have to go to Rupert and have A Talk. He needs to tell them what the fuck has crawled up his ass and Casey needs to get both of their needs and expectations out there. Because up until now Casey hadn’t thought there was any terrible problem going on. It had seemed fine. But obviously it hasn’t been fine, something has been eating away at Rupert and Casey had been none the wiser. Casey looks up, pouting at Angelus.

“Are you sure there’s no other way?”

He shrugs. “Well, you could both not talk about it and end up having this festering wound between you for however long it takes for one of you to make a terrible mistake because of it and end up dying, or--”

“Jesus Christ,” Casey says, smacking him on the arm and standing up. “Alright. Drama queen.”

He leans back, offering them an beatific, innocent smile. Casey scoffs and rolls their eyes. _Maybe he’s not…. **so** bad…._

“You need me to walk you back?” He offers.

For a moment, Casey almost says yes. His presence isn’t as terrible as they’d thought it would be, but they need to get their thoughts in order. This isn’t gonna be a fun talk with Rupert.

“No,” Casey says quietly. They look at his upturned face for a moment, and then gently touch his shoulder. “Thank you, though.”

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this a wooey chapter? Yes. So sue me. (but actually don't though)
> 
> I wonder if you guys will guess who Casey's magical friends are? The dog represents one, and the voice and his brother are a decent clue I feel.


	13. I Found a Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert and Casey have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> \- talk of Rupert's cuts and the subsequent stitching up of them  
> \- death discussion  
> \- mention of demons??  
> \- talk of suicide  
> \- talk of cutting (self harm)
> 
> NOTE: you may want to break out Spotify for this chapter

PREVIOUSLY

 

_Angelus nods, and his eyes go distant as he considers his words._

_“I think,” He says slowly, “That you don’t have the whole picture. And you can’t, not without Giles telling you what you’re missing himself.”_

_“I know that,” Casey mutters, a little petulantly._

_He smiles. “Well yeah, you do. So you know what you gotta do next.”_

* * *

 

_ Friday, Third of October, 1997 _

_ Casey _

 

Casey takes the long way home. The night clears their head a little, and the lightheartedness of talking with Angelus has made them feel a little better. There’s still anger and hurt burning in their chest, but their head feels a little calmer now.

They stop outside of Rupert’s apartment building, looking up to where they know his windows are, mostly covered by bookcases. It’s hard to force themself to go in, and a dizzy fear strikes them as they consider what they might find inside, especially since Angelus could smell the blood from outside. Climbing the stairs feels like rising through lead, but eventually they make it to his door.

Casey stands, staring at it for a moment. It’s quiet inside. Do they knock? Do they go in? They unlock the door hesitantly and peek inside.

Rupert is sitting at his chair at the table, leaned back with his eyes closed. His fingers tug a bit on the reddened bandages peeking out of his sleeve. Casey steps inside, making sure to walk heel-toe with enough force that their footsteps are clear, and Rupert turns his head, looking at them with very tired eyes.

The harsh lines in his face relax, the wash of relief obvious across his features as Casey closes the door behind them. He moves as if to stand, hesitates, changes his mind, and sits awkwardly. Casey sighs.

“Let me see,” Casey says, gesturing to his injury.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, forehead knitting again, but he pulls off his button down as Casey approaches and leans their hip on the edge of the table. The bandages are completely soaked through, Casey sees, hanging damp and red as Rupert undoes them.

His skin is stained red with blood, the cuts deep and angry. Casey absently shoves books out of the way and sits on the table, leaning across it to turn on a lamp before taking Rupert’s wrist gently and maneuvering his arm under the light. Casey pokes and prods, turning his arm this way and that before setting back a little.

“Do you have any silk thread?”

“You know how to do stitches?” Rupert asks, sounding surprised.

“Of course,” Casey mutters quietly.

“I-in the bathroom, under the sink….”

The kit Casey fetches is more than enough, augmented with slightly heavier duty tools than the average. Casey washes their hands and cleans off the table, setting it up with clean towels and a bowl of water. Rupert watches silently as Casey cleans away his blood, threads up their needle, and begins with the shallowest cuts. The farther up Rupert’s arm Casey goes, though, the deeper the cuts get, and Casey has to switch from silk interrupted sutures to an absorbable monofilament beneath the skin. Their heart pounds a little as they close a cut dangerously close to the veins in the crook of his elbow; if he had just cut a little to the left….

But he didn’t. The cuts are deep, showing a thin layer of fat below the skin, and at the deepest part lacerating muscle, but he didn’t bleed out, he’s still alive and breathing shallowly with pain as Casey stitches him up. He’s fine.

The part on his bicep is the worst; the skin gapes open and Casey has to put a few stitches into the muscle itself to hold together the edges before they can begin stitching up the skin. As the edges come together, Casey realizes they cut through a tattoo of now indistinguishable design.

They’d noticed before that Rupert had a tattoo, and despite thinking it odd hadn’t looked much into it. Their father was fond of tattoos, and so Casey isn’t unused to tattooed men. Or men with piercings, they think, glancing at Rupert’s earlobe. Only one, unlike their father. But there are several very deep cuts disfiguring this tattoo, and as Casey sews it back up they can feel Rupert steeling himself. They wait for him to talk first. He sighs.

“You’re not going to ask?”

“Do I need to?”

“No….” He looks sadly down at the tattoo, which Casey has almost finished reassembling. Casey can tell this is going to be a long story.

“I-I was told I was going to be a Watcher from a very young age. It’s a family vocation, you see, and I was….” He sighs. “I showed aptitude, but I was certainly less than pleased about it. The training was absolutely brutal; similar to what you have to endure in your role as a Slayer, except that I always knew the elder Watchers were purposely putting my wellbeing in danger. At eighteen, I was put through a field test that nearly killed me; and _did_ kill every other child I was training with. It thoroughly disenchanted me with the idea of my destiny, and although I went to university, studying history by day and the occult by night…. I wasn’t dedicated. I chafed under the restrictions, the constant pressure of studying what was essentially two or three majors at once for the reward of one. By age twenty-one I was-- just… _done._ I dropped out, I disappeared into London, a-and I met--”

He stops, swallows. “I met Ethan.”

“He was everything I wanted to be, and everything I never could have been. Wild and brash and somehow blissfully carefree. H-he was the one who introduced me to the _use_ of magic, not just the study of it….”

Rupert breaks off, seeming to have trouble explaining himself.

“We got into the study of demons. Along with some others, we began a coven with a heavy focus on demonolatry-- or at least, Ethan and I focused on demonolatry; the others where just along for the ride. This tattoo…..”

Casey finishes off the last stitch and Rupert stares at his arm for a second. Stitches are never pretty, and Casey knows that they’ll all scar even though they’ve stitched them well.

“This tattoo,” Rupert starts again, “Was a mark taken by the initiates of an ancient Etruscan demon. It allowed him to possess our bodies. For Ethan and I, the power was incredible. Better than a drug, but not quite as dangerous. For the others, it was overwhelming. One of our members was…. Unable to control the demon. We managed to exorcise the demon from him before it could cause any horrible damage to this realm but….”

He closes his eyes. His breathing is edging towards a panic attack, but Casey isn’t sure what they can do to help. They’re not sure if it’s okay for them to touch him.

“W-we killed him,” Rupert grits out. “Thomas. The demon was purged from our realm but--”

_Oh._

“I was-- I quit. I left Ethan, I left the coven, I don’t know if the others-- But I left. And I didn’t touch magic since.”

“Until now,” Casey finishes quietly.

He lets out a breath which might have been a laugh or a sob, Casey isn’t sure. “I-I-- I broke every pact I made with myself when I rededicated myself to my duty as a Watcher-- Never to touch magic, never to summon demons, never to get _attached--”_

His good hand comes up, tugging on his hair, and Casey instinctively takes it in theirs. Rupert squeezes their fingers tightly-- his hand is shaking.

“I don’t-- I-I didn’t mean-- to get this attached,” He says.

Casey thinks back to when they’d actually talked about their relationship. This is the problem with letting it be so ill-defined, they suppose. They can see this is already more intense than what Rupert had suggested and what they had envisioned; there’s something between them which feels natural and easy, but in a way which is more intimate than Casey had expected. They may both be fumbling and awkward, but not in a discordant way. They fumble _into_ each other.

“I don’t know what to do,” He whispers. “I-I-I said before that-- That the most important aspect of our relationship was our dynamic as Slayer and Watcher but now--”

“Now it barely feels like a factor at all.”

“Which _cannot_ happen if I am to continue as your Watcher,” Rupert says desperately, looking up at Casey. “Already we are heading towards something out of a Greek tragedy and I--”

“It’s only a tragedy if one of us dies,” Casey mutters.

“But one of us will! Casey, that’s part of our reality, part of our _duties,_ to die on the front lines protecting mankind from the darkness. It’s my duty as a Watcher to die so you can live on, your duty as a Slayer to die so humanity can live on-- And while I have always been prepared to die for you I-I-- Every day the thought of _you_ dying hurts me more and more.”

“Rupert,” Casey whispers sadly.

“Casey I don’t know how you feel about me, but if it even approaches the way I feel for you I will not be able to let you die when the time comes.”

They stare at each other. Casey doesn’t know how they feel; it’s warm and nice but they have no experience with-- with--- _love._

“I-I-I don’t know if I--” Casey stutters. “I don’t know what love is, Rupert, I don’t know what it feels like.”

“I do,” Rupert says.

That fluttering is back, filling Casey’s stomach and chest and their breath hitches. Casey suddenly feels shy under Rupert’s beautiful grass-green eyes; he is so steady, tired and sad and sure. Something in his gaze makes Casey feel so vulnerable; they can’t decide if they like it or not.

“So what do we do?” Casey asks, aware their voice is higher than normal.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, finally breaking eye contact. “I…. I don’t know.”

Rupert’s eyes unfocus, so Casey takes the time to carefully bandage his injured arm while he thinks. He lets them handle his arm easily, not flinching or even looking, and Casey feels a little special. Whatever else he feels for them, he certainly trusts them with his injuries. Then they organize the medical supplies on the table a little bit, waiting for Rupert to speak. Eventually he huffs a little sigh.

“As long as the Council stays unaware, I do not see any reason we need to change.” He glances at Casey. “As long as you’re aware that the very second you’re expected to lay down your life, I’m quitting and taking you far away, the fate of the world be damned.”

“Ru,” Casey mutters, a little embarrassed.

“I will!”

“I know you will but it’s not--” Casey shifts a little on the table. “We’ll just have to get creative, that’s all.”

“Mm.”

They sit together in silence, and Casey realizes that they’re still holding Rupert’s hand. The fluttering fills their heart and they take a deep breath, willing it away but not releasing him.

“R-Rupert?”

“Hmm?”

Casey flounders for a moment, staring at his now neatly bandaged arm. Rupert follows their gaze, and then looks back at them quizzically. Casey shifts again, uncomfortable, as little upset feelings remind them of their anger earlier that evening.

“Wh-why did you--? Y-you could have died, Ru.”

“Oh,” He breathes, looking down. “I-I wasn’t--” He sighs.

“I was distraught and had been drinking and I-I just…. I wasn’t…”

Casey begins bouncing in place, a childish self-soothing method, tightening their grip on Rupert’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, pulling their joined hands up to his lips and kissing Casey’s fingers. “I’m sorry, love.”

“Do you…”  _cut often?_

He chuckles humorlessly. “No. That was another oath broken, though not one made quite so seriously. I’ve never done quite that much damage to myself, before, it was rather inelegant.”

“But you used to?”

“I used to,” He confirms. “Starting at a young age and on until my late teens. My legs,” He clarifies, as Casey’s eyes flick to the relatively scarless skin of his forearm.

Casey bounces some more, and he squeezes their fingers gently.

“I don’t anymore, Casey. Not really. Last night was… A bad combination of horrible memories and old guilt and new guilt and alcohol and…” He sighs.

“I had a friend,” Casey says quietly. “In high school. My best friend. I flunked out at the same time as her abusive mother pulled her out. She cut before that but afterwards it just got worse and worse… And then one day I never heard from her again.”

“Oh, Casey,” He whispers.

He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then stands and makes his way shakily to his records. The one he pulls out is in a well worn sleeve, and he barely glances at the song numbering before putting the record on and carefully setting the needle before the correct song. Casey doesn’t know the cover art or the band name, so they wait patiently as the gramophone plays through the silent stretch. Rupert makes his way back to the table and sits, his good hand resting on the side of Casey’s knee gently.

The song that begins to play is slow and hopeful. It’s not familiar to Casey, but Rupert sits with the kind of patient stillness that tells Casey he has listened to this song millions of times before.

 

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_I found a reason to keep living_

_Oh and the reason, dear, is you_

_I found a reason to keep singing_

_Oh, and the reason, dear, is you_

_Oh, I do believe, if you don’t like things you leave_

_For someplace you’ve never gone before_

 

Casey listens quietly, knowing this is his way of reassuring them. The song is more sentimental than they had expected; a slow dance, gentle and quiet, but… Rupert’s finger lifts, as if the next bit is the most pertinent part of the song. Spoken, the lead vocal of the song says,

 

_Honey, I found a reason to keep living._

_And you know the reason? Dear, it’s you._

_And I’ve walked down life’s lonely highways_

_Hand in hand with myself,_

_And I realized how many paths have crossed between us_

Before the singing resumes,

_Oh, I do believe, you are what you perceive_

_What comes is better than what came before_

 

Casey closes their eyes, listening to the guitar as Rupert’s fingers rub back and forth gently on their leg. The pain in their chest is still there, the dizzying worry, but they understand what Rupert is saying with this.

 

_Oh, I do believe, you are what you perceive_

_What comes is better than what came before_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_Ba ba ba ba_

_And you better come_

_Come come, come to me_

_Come come, come to me_

_Better come_

_Come come, come to me_

_Ba ba ba ba……._

The song trails off on a hopeful note.

Rupert stands and puts the record away, and Casey idly wonders what other songs are on it that it's been handled so much. Rupert handles that album with the same kind of reverence that he touches some of his older books with.

“It may have been indirectly,” Rupert says quietly as he returns to his seat at the table, “But you _are_ what saved my life. The concept of you, the Slayer…” A little smile curls just the edges of his mouth. “Perhaps also the concept of you as a person, although I didn’t realize it quite yet. After I left Ethan and the coven, I was a wreck, Casey. It was the reminder of my duty, the concept of having something to better myself for-- some _one_ to better myself for-- that saved me. And the more time I spend with you, the more I find myself wanting to become better.”

That’s as close to a promise as Casey will get, but it fills their heart with a thick warmness anyways. Exhausted, they droop off of the table and into Rupert’s lap, and his good arm comes around them gently. Casey presses their face into his neck, breathing him in, and a tiny frenetic part of their brain they hadn’t even realized was perpetually ringing in alarm falls silent. Rupert heaves a stuttering sigh.

“‘M sorry,” Casey whispers. “‘M Sorry I ran.”

“I’m sorry I made you want to,” He replies with quiet dryness. “I should have communicated with you, Casey. I-I should have… At least told you something was wrong, that I was upset, even if I didn’t have the presence of mind to tell you everything yet. I’m sorry.”

Casey sits up in his lap, their hand coming up to rest so gently against his cheek. There's more they could say, more they could apologize for.... But both of them are weary right now. They examine his face, really taking it in for the first time in a while, and then lean forward and gently brush a kiss to the line next to his mouth. Rupert’s eyes slide closed, his breath escaping him shakily. Casey kisses the apple of his cheek, cataloguing the texture of his skin against their lips…. Brushes their lips across the wrinkles at the corner of his eye-- their favorite wrinkles, because they’re formed from smiling. Stretches up to kiss the scar across his forehead, old and only visible anymore by the shape of the skin around it, then peppers one… two… three… four… five kisses across the rest of the lines in his forehead, feeling them relax and smooth slightly beneath their lips. The line between his eyebrows is next, and this kiss is firm and full and Rupert lets out a breath just barely colored by voice, and then they kiss the lines next to his other eye, and Rupert turns his face into the kiss, seeming to enjoy it. They kiss the edge of the line marking the bags under Rupert’s eye, the skin so delicate beneath their lips, then the tip of his nose, the cleft in his chin, and finally his lips.

Rupert’s arm around them is strong and firm, and he kisses Casey as if their lips are water in the barren desert. Casey lets themself be swept away in it, in _him,_ dizzy on his touch. They kiss for what could be years or merely a few seconds, and when Rupert pulls away his hand comes up to cup Casey’s cheek, and Casey is still spinning, the whole world taken up by Rupert’s gentle touch and kind, beautiful face. They kiss again, enduringly, tenderly. Nothing else exists.

They get ready for bed in a drifting haze, putting away the bloodied towels and migrating into Rupert's dark, cold bedroom. It smells different, Casey notes sleepily. They can tell Rupert didn't stay in here last night; the air doesn't smell as much like him, or like them. 

Crawling into Rupert’s bed, dressed in one of his big button downs, feels like coming home for Casey. They can’t sleep in the same position they usually do; Rupert takes Casey’s side instead, lying on his back so his injured arm is unbothered by cuddles, and Casey lies on his side of the bed, pressed tightly into Rupert's side with their head pillowed by his shoulder. But still it's infinitely better than being alone; Rupert’s arm holds them firmly, as if he’s afraid they’ll slip away should he let go, and feelings rush through Casey like a monsoon.

Grief, at the worry they caused him; fear for his safety; anger at themself for running when they could have stayed, could have helped him, could maybe have smacked some sense into him before he turned to self harm; a deeply seated calm-- a sensation of belonging that is strange and terrifying and thrilling; and a tiny touch of nervous confusion at the breathless fluttering feeling that has refused to leave Casey's chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I get so caught up in reading my own story I forget I'm supposed to be editing it
> 
> Did you like the absolutely gratuitous songfic? I had to, you know I had to, and I will absolutely be doing it again in the future. Prepare yourselves ;)


	14. Even Meaner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey takes care of Rupert, and Rupert takes care of Casey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCREAM
> 
> Okay, um, TW for:  
> \- bad eating habits (Rupert is absolutely the sort to have tea instead of food, the idiot)  
> \- mention of Halloween  
> \- talk of suicide and cutting  
> \- mild implied BDSM stuff

PREVIOUSLY

 

_Crawling into Rupert’s bed, dressed in one of his big button downs, feels like coming home for Casey. They can’t sleep in the same position they usually do; Rupert takes Casey’s side instead, lying on his back so his injured arm is unbothered by cuddles, and Casey lies on his side of the bed, pressed tightly into Rupert's side with their head pillowed by his shoulder. But still it's infinitely better than being alone; Rupert’s arm holds them firmly, as if he’s afraid they’ll slip away should he let go, and feelings rush through Casey like a monsoon._

_Grief, at the worry they caused him; fear for his safety; anger at themself for running when they could have stayed, could have helped him, could maybe have smacked some sense into him before he turned to self harm; a deeply seated calm-- a sensation of belonging that is strange and terrifying and thrilling; and a tiny touch of nervous confusion at the breathless fluttering feeling that has refused to leave Casey's chest._

* * *

 

_Saturday, Fourth of October, 1997_

_Casey_

 

Casey wakes up feeling clear headed and refreshed. Rupert is still asleep, and Casey almost gets out of bed before realizing he might panic to wake and find them gone. He was clinging to them last night, and although his arm has relaxed now in sleep it’s still more or less around them. Casey pushes up on their elbow, slow and silent so as not to bother Rupert too much, and looks at him.

It’s hard to see much in the darkness, even with Casey’s unusually good night-sight, but Casey’s Sight tells them what their eyes can’t. Rupert is relaxed, peaceful, his energy pooled sleepily. Casey marvels at the deepest red hints of his magic below his transparent energies; generally a human’s soul can’t be seen simply because their energy is too young, too slight, but for witches who draw magic from elsewhere their magic itself takes on a similar color to that of their invisible soul. Rupert’s magic is the deepest red of arterial blood, but the crests and peaks of it lift to a brilliant fiery orange. The color itself is strong, but seen through the shimmer of Rupert’s soul is diluted to the red-orange of rowan berries.

It almost makes Casey chuckle. They know their own magic is cool green, soft and creamy in texture, without the bold acidity of Rupert’s magic. They’re almost direct opposites; cleanly complimentary in color.

Casey leans back down, lowering their lips to Rupert’s neck, enjoying the texture of his skin. He smells ever so faintly of old books, this close; Casey fancifully imagines that he’s spent so much time with ancient tomes that they’ve become a part of him somehow. It’s a delightful smell, one of Casey’s favorites. He also smells a bit like black tea which, Casey thinks, is frightfully ironic.

Rupert makes a sleepy little noise, his face turning towards Casey’s, and Casey’s lips brush up along the roughness of his jaw. They press a kiss to his skin, and he turns towards them more, seeking their lips.

It’s a gentle kiss, not particularly deep or involved, but it feels so perfect to Casey. An overwhelming feeling rushes up through their chest, making them breathless and lightheaded.

“Mm,” Rupert groans, groggy and barely there. Casey’s heart stutters.

“Mornin’,” They murmur, and he hums a little.

Casey chuckles. “You stay here, okay? I’ll cook today, you don’t have to get up.”

“Y’ll bring me breakfast in bed?” He mumbles.

“Mm-hmm.”

Casey gives him a light kiss and tries to sit up, but Rupert’s arm clamps down around them and pulls them in to kiss him again. Casey tries hard not to smile, but they can feel Rupert’s lips curling up too and eventually he gives their bottom lip a little nip.

“Go on, then.”

The apartment is dark, barely lit and peaceful. Casey almost doesn’t want to turn on any lights; they like it when it’s dark, so they only turn on the kitchen lights and leave the rest off. Breakfast is mostly carbs and fruit, this morning, since Rupert hasn’t eaten in more than 24 hours. Casey knows how volatile stomachs can be; their own used to be a nightmare. They prepare a glass of orange juice and mint tea and make sure to cook with as little oil as possible, and then they fish around for a moment before finding a little tray in a cabinet.

When they return to the bedroom Rupert is slowly sitting up in bed. He looks a bit off, not even trying to turn on a bedside lamp because they’re both too far away. Casey sets the tray down at the foot of the bed and turns on one of the lamps.

“How’s your stomach?”

“Terrible,” He grunts, rubbing at his eyes with his good hand.

“Hunger pains terrible or nausea terrible?”

“Nausea.”

Casey hands him the tea and instructs him to drink it slowly. When he’s done that, Casey lets him settle for a moment, retrieving some supplies from the bathroom to clean and redress his wounds.

“Think you can handle juice?”

“I can try,” He says quietly.

The juice Casey has specifically poured a while ago, so it won’t be extremely cold when Rupert drinks it. They don’t want stomach cramps to make him feel worse. He sips at it slowly as Casey carefully looks over his stitches, cleaning them and preparing but not yet putting on new bandages; Rupert’s not doing anything very active right now, so it’s better to let them air. Rupert seems to be feeling a bit better; he’s not looking as pale, nor is he shaking as much as he had been yesterday. About halfway through the glass of juice he indicates that he’s ready for the actual food, so Casey moves the tray into his lap.

“It’s lucky you’re right handed,” Casey says quietly, and Rupert snorts.

Rupert doesn’t eat everything on his plate, but he doesn’t get nauseous either which is good enough. Casey leaves the juice with Rupert and takes the rest away, washing his dishes and scarfing down their own meal in the kitchen. Luckily, after their awakening as the Slayer their stomach hasn’t been anywhere near as sensitive as it used to be. They can stand waiting to eat, now, and eating quickly.

When Casey comes back to the bedroom, Rupert is leaning his head back against the wall with his eyes closed. They lean in the doorway for a moment, watching him.

“How ya feelin’?”

“Better, nurse, thank you.” He cracks one eye open, peering at Casey, who huffs out a laugh.

“You know eating is important, right?”

He groans. _”Yes.”_

“Don’t be petulant,” Casey scolds, trying not to smile. “Humans need food, Ru, which apparently you forgot.”

He groans again. Casey snorts and wanders into the room, crawling onto the bed to straddle his lap. Rupert peeks at them.

“Going to punish me?” He teases lightly.

“No,” Casey says, smiling a little. “The bad feelings from not eating punished you plenty.”

He hums. “Magnanimous.”

“I know.”

The whole day is slow and lazy. Casey spends most of it taking care of Rupert, making sure his stomach is fully settled and that he doesn’t stress his stitches. He takes it in good grace, probably mostly because he’s still feeling weak. Casey is sure if he was feeling more lively he’d be a very whiny patient, but as it is he seems content to let Casey look after him and cuddle. Honestly, while Casey isn’t much of a caretaker, they do enjoy doing the medical care. It’s something they’ve always been good at, something they had at one point considered a career in. But that was before they’d become a _persona non grata_ education-wise.

They don’t talk about anything stressful the whole day. Rupert compliments Casey’s stitches and Casey admits to an enjoyment of sewing. Casey asks teasingly if Rupert has any other tattoos, to which he responds in the negative; Casey isn’t sure if they’re disappointed or not. Rupert talks a little bit about what London’s like-- or what it was like, when he had been Casey’s age.

In no time at all, night has fallen again. Rupert, who’s feeling marginally better, grumbles about having to sleep on his back. Casey considers, just for a moment, playfully pinning him down-- but they know that would make the mood a bit more intense, and it’s been so nice and relaxing today. They can pin him down another time, Casey decides. When they’re both feeling less fragile.

* * *

 

_Tuesday, seventh of October, 1997_

 

A few days, and Rupert is back on his feet. Things have been quiet recently; October tends to be a very lowkey month, what with Halloween being a Slayer’s night off and all. It’s clear Rupert has something on his mind, but after he respond to Casey’s questioning look with a “not now,” and implied _later,_ Casey has let him be. They’ve read through several of his books; positively fascinating, many of them, even if they’re not all very easy to read. The ones on alchemy, while extremely convoluted to make sense of, have Casey enraptured.

Eventually, Rupert seems ready to talk. He sits Casey down at the table with the usual tea and frowns to himself as he orders his thoughts.

“I have been thinking,” He begins. “....Well. It’s clear you have some magical talent. I-it’s really been remiss of me not to work harder on your training. Everything with the witch…”

Casey shudders.

“It could have been avoided,” Rupert says.

“I-I’m not really…. Good, at active magic,” Casey says. “I never have been.”

“I can… well, not _see,_ but I can tell it’s not your forte,” Rupert allows. “But as the Slayer--”

“It’s my duty, I know,” Casey groans. “Okay, that’s fine, I guess. But _how?”_

Because the problem isn’t just that Casey doesn’t _like_ warding magics. While Rupert’s magic is very big and very strident, Casey’s is gentle and meek. It’s simply not suited for forming hard barriers or even for most kinds of permanent spells.

Apparently this is what Rupert’s been thinking so hard about.

“There are a few options,” He explains. “As some witches do, you could employ outside help. Having another witch ward for you is a possibility, although it leaves you vulnerable to that specific witch. You could also entreat a being or deity, with the same vulnerabilities. _Or,”_ He says, as Casey makes a face at the options, “We could design a permanent ward for you to wear as a talisman or tattoo. A piece of jewelry could be removed, lost, or destroyed, but a tattoo or other kind of marking on your skin would be constantly powered and extremely difficult to remove unless your enemy knew about it.”

“Hm,” Casey says.

“The tattoo is the most practical option, Casey, if not the easiest.”

“Yeah,” Casey agrees quietly. “Yeah.”

So they get to planning. Rupert’s first suggestion is runes, which Casey immediately shoots down; the tattoo needs to be highly specific to them, and they’re not as familiar with runes as they are with other things. They agree first to the Ogham letter luis, associated with the rowan tree. Casey insists also on a hieroglyph of a jackal head in triforce; they may as well invoke all of their godly protectors in this, as well as pull a bit of rank. A greek theta in the center, and the wavelength 625-740 nanometers around it…… perfect.

Rupert insists that Casey get this done professionally, since he’s not willing to risk Casey’s safety to his art skills. Honestly, in this case Casey agrees; there’s no way they’re getting something so important done by stick’n’poke.

“Where should we put it, though?” Casey asks. “I mean, not on a limb that can be chopped off, and not in a place that can be seen.”

Rupert scrunches up his face, looking over Casey for a good spot. “Not on the back of the neck…. Lower back?”

“Not with my Liz getup.”

“Upper back, between the shoulder blades?”

“Maybe, so long as I’m never required to swim in public.”

He makes an exasperated little noise. “How much skin do you plan on showing?”

“Depends. If I’m swimming as Liz, I’ll have to wear a bikini. I may require you to kill me afterwards, but….”

“A bikini?”

Casey snorts. Rupert’s eyes are so wide they look like they might just pop out of his head. A terrible thought occurs to Casey.

“Actually, ugh. I hope I never have to swim as Liz, I’d have to _shave.”_

“S-shave?”

They might have broken him.

“Yeah, girls aren’t allowed to have body hair, remember?”

“I-I hadn’t…. Thought about it,” Rupert says.

Casey leans back in their chair, waving a bare leg in the air. They haven’t shaved their legs since they were sixteen. Rupert snorts and swats at Casey’s foot.

“Put that down. Ruffian.”

“Anyways, I’m fuzzy,” Casey says, putting their leg back down. “But I hate shaving so I’m just gonna pray I never have to swim as a girl.”

Rupert looks like he wants to insult Casey’s relatively ginger-- and thus relatively invisible-- fuzz, but luckily for his wellbeing he restricts his commentary to an eyeroll.

“Praying is well and good, but we still need a place for your tattoo.”

Casey wrinkles their nose. They can’t think of anyplace else they could put a tattoo-- at least not places they’d be okay with the artist seeing or touching. Casey opens their mouth-- closes it again. Rupert raises an eyebrow.

“Arse tattoo?” He suggests. “It would certainly be one of the less painful locations.”

Casey laughs a little, swatting at him without making contact. “I already have a birthmark there. Besides, I’m not gonna drop trow in a tattoo parlor.”

“You do?” Rupert asks, completely ignoring the second part of Casey’s sentence.

 _What a guy._ Casey rolls their eyes, then stands, pulling the long tails of Rupert’s button down up and the waistband of their boxer briefs down. They point to a pale birthmark on the outer edge of their ass.

“It used to be darker. When I wear girl underwear it’s actually completely uncovered.”

Rupert’s mouth is hanging open, Casey sees as they glance at his face. He snaps his mouth shut with a click when he realizes Casey is looking at him, turning away and blinking rapidly. Casey smirks and reorders their clothes, sitting back down.

“Anyways. No butt tattoos, thank you.”

Rupert stutters and stammers for a moment, before managing, “J-just as well.”

He clears his throat.

“Anyways. I-I-I think, so long as we can avoid the dreaded swimming situation, placing it on your back should be just fine.”

 _Dreaded,_ Casey smirks. _But I bet you’d just love to see me in a bikini._

“So what about you?” Casey asks, swirling their tea.

“What?”

“I mean, you could be cursed too.”

He blinks for a moment, and Casey can’t help but roll their eyes.

“Oh. Well that’s true I suppose, I hadn’t thought about that…”

“You wouldn’t have,” Casey snorts. _”Massive_ blind spot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Casey makes a face, casting about for the right words. “You just-- Like, summoning demons, woo scary. Danger to me? Yeah. Danger to town? Yeah. Danger to _you as well,_ but somehow that never crossed your mind. Evil witch-bitch, cursing people. Danger to me? Yeah. Danger to town? Yeah. Danger to you?” Casey leans forward a little, looking at him intently. _”Yeah._ You can’t do your job as my Watcher if you forget to protect yourself, can you, Ru?”

Rupert looks a little stunned, so Casey leans back and lets him think.

Honestly, Rupert’s egregious overlooking of danger to himself deeply bothers Casey. They can’t imagine he’s the type of person to care so little about his own safety-- not when he's so careful about every other aspect of his life. Which makes them think perhaps he was conditioned to think this way. They remember the things they’ve read, and what Rupert has said, about the training of new Watchers and their lip curls.

Rupert rubs at his forehead.

“I…. You’re right. You’re…. You’re right, I’m--” He shakes his head. “I’ll look into something for myself as well.”

“Good,” mutters Casey.

He looks up at Casey, a little frown starting to crease between his eyebrows. _Such puppy dog eyes,_ Casey thinks. They sigh.

“I just don’t like how little you think of your own safety, that’s all.”

“I do _care,”_ He says quietly. “I-I’m not--” _suicidal._

“I know.” Casey sighs. _Or at least I hope._

Rupert looks distressed, and he reaches across the table for Casey's hand. Their fingers play together naturally, and Casey watches them.

“I promise you, Casey.”

\---

They take an early night that night. Rupert sits up against the headboard with Casey in his lap. It’s dark, the only illumination one of the bedside lamps, and they look at each other carefully. Rupert in particular seems to be looking for something; there’s still that upset little crease between his eyebrows.

“Have you ever cut?” He asks suddenly.

Casey is taken aback; the question seems completely out of nowhere.

“I tried it, once,” Casey admits. “It scared me so bad I never did it again.”

“Where?”

They hold up the back of their left hand, where a barely-visible scar shines. Rupert takes their hand in his, looking at the scar for a moment before kissing each of their knuckles.

“I don’t scar much,” Casey murmurs, a little entranced as Rupert holds Casey’s palm to his cheek.

He hasn’t been as scrupulous with shaving, since they haven’t gone out in a few days. His cheeks and jaw are rough. He looks at Casey, head tilted a little into their palm as his thumb traces back and forth over the scar. Gently, he turns his head, pressing a kiss to the pad of Casey’s thumb.

Fluttering erupts inside of Casey, and they try not to shift too much or clamp their knees together-- especially since it wouldn’t accomplish anything, with their knees being on either side of Rupert’s waist. A little smirk-- the tiniest, most Cheshire of smiles curls Rupert’s mouth, and he takes their hand away from his face, sliding his hands up their thighs instead.

Casey’s hands fall to his sides, fingers tangling in the fabric of his T-shirt. They feel dizzy and hot-- they’re certain that if they were standing they would fall like some fluttering dame in an old movie. Rupert’s long fingers tug and lift at the hem of the shirt they wear, sliding a bit under.

“May I?”

Casey nods, and his hands slide up under the shirt. He grips their hips firmly, his thumbs sliding under the waistband of their boxer briefs to press into the divot in the bone-- not pushing or pulling anywhere, simply gripping them tightly, his fingers pressing into the small amount of fat. Casey moans a little, and an enormous thrill goes through them when they try weakly to shift their hips and find themself immobilized by Rupert’s hands. In reality, it would be easy for them to break his grip, but right now they want to feel as if they’re in his power. Knowing it’s a vain wish, they still hope a little he might bruise their hips with his fingers. Casey never bruises, and Rupert certainly isn’t strong enough to bruise them in such a fleshy place, but they can dream….

Casey tries to shift again, applying barely more force, and again Rupert’s grip stops them. He pulls them closer, pressing their hips to his and leaning forward. He noses along Casey’s jaw, and then his teeth graze beneath Casey’s ear and a moan leaps from their throat, surprising them. Rupert pauses, laves his tongue across their skin-- Casey moans again, gripping at the shoulders of his T-shirt. Their neck is unfairly sensitive, it’s as if they physically can’t stop the sounds coming from their mouth. Rupert chuckles a little against their skin, grazes his teeth a little lower-- _Ah--_ And then sits back. Casey whines.

Rupert offers them a fond, teasing little smile. Casey is breathing hard, thighs twitching against the urge to spread their legs more, and a deep warmth spreads through their stomach at Rupert’s look. He knows exactly what he’s doing to them, Casey thinks. Rupert’s hands slide under their boxer briefs, gripping the soft flesh of their ass and spreading them open-- Casey shakes, tugging at his shirt reflexively. If he just moved his fingers a little more-- But he lets go, smoothing his hands up Casey’s side to rest on their ribs, and Casey pants in his lap, heavily turned on and positively dizzy.

Rupert watches calmly as they catch their breath. Every part of Casey is tingling, and Rupert’s gaze makes them tingle more. They’re positive they’re all wet now-- _Rude._

“Was that alright?” He asks lowly, and Casey lets out a breathless laugh.

“Uh-huh. Though _God,_ Ru.”

He grins. “A bit bothered, love?”

“Oh, only a _bit._ I’ll have to change my underwear now, I can’t sleep like this.”

His grin intensifies. Casey scoffs, rocking forward to kiss him-- twitching as they inadvertently grind against him. He hugs them tightly, favoring his uninjured arm.

“So mean to me,” Casey whispers against his lips, and he chuckles.

Eventually he does let them go. Just to be mean, since Casey has to get out of bed and go _all the way across the room,_ Casey simply drops their underwear while still in the bedroom. Rupert’s shirt covers them, but Casey glances over their shoulder and sees Rupert watching them with dark, intense eyes. They offer him an innocent little smile as they take a fresh pair of underwear into the bathroom.

Climbing into bed, Rupert grumbles as he has every night about having to sleep on his back. Casey slings one of their legs over his, pressing into his side.

“You’ll mess up your stitches, Ru, no side-sleeping.”

“And you’ll stop me how?”

Casey giggles into his shoulder, tired and still tingling. “I’ll pin you down, of course. I am stronger than you, you know.”

“Mm.” Rupert’s arm tightens around them, and Casey sighs in contentment. “I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHHHHHHHHH WOWIE
> 
> I don't know where that came from. *anime sweatdrop* oops
> 
> lkjhgfdsgdfghjk ANYWAYS. Uh. What do y'all think the different parts of Casey's tattoo mean?


	15. Black Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert has to deal with some black dogs, and learns about a new kind of strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long-ass wait. Had a bit of trouble planning. I should mention this chapter (and the ones after it up until we get to Bug Lady time,) are off-script. That is, not based off of an episode/episodes.

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ Climbing into bed, Rupert grumbles as he has every night about having to sleep on his back. Casey slings one of their legs over his, pressing into his side. _

_ “You’ll mess up your stitches, Ru, no side-sleeping.” _

_ “And you’ll stop me how?” _

_ Casey giggles into his shoulder, tired and still tingling. “I’ll pin you down, of course. I am stronger than you, you know.” _

_ “Mm.” Rupert’s arm tightens around them, and Casey sighs in contentment. “I look forward to it.” _

* * *

 

_ Wednesday, Eighth of October, 1997 _

_ Rupert Giles _

 

Rupert wakes up from a slow, foggy sleep, the drifting impression of feline eyes and the smell of spice and honey giving way to the reality of a small hand resting on his stomach. Slowly, he covers Casey’s hand with his own; his left arm is still stiff and uncomfortable, but he’ll endure the discomfort for this. Casey’s fingers are always so cold.

Casey shifts a little against him, nuzzling his face into Rupert’s shoulder with a sweet, sleepy little noise. A breathless warmth swirls up through Rupert’s chest. Gently, he brings Casey’s sleepily curled fingers to his lips, simply holding it there and enjoying the closeness. With a sigh, Casey’s fingers wiggle a little in his grasp and begin to trace the outline of his lips, and Rupert kisses each fingertip as it passes. He looks down to see Casey’s eyes barely open, still bleary from sleep, with a small smile curling his lips. 

Carefully, avoiding putting too much pressure on his arm, Rupert rolls more towards Casey, displacing the younger man’s head from his shoulder so that Casey is more or less on his back beneath him. They kiss eagerly, Casey’s hand pulling and kneading at the hem of Rupert’s T-shirt until Rupert takes his hand and guides it under the cloth. Casey’s fingers are cold, but it feels so nice to be touched by him that Rupert honestly doesn’t care; he pulls away from Casey’s lips to begin kissing and nipping along his jaw, and Casey gasps, throwing his head back to give Rupert more room. As soon as his lips touch Casey’s neck the younger man moans, and unbidden a smile begins to curl Rupert’s mouth. Gently he nuzzles under Casey’s jaw, tracing his tongue along the line of his throat, and as Casey pants and moans beneath him he can’t help but snicker a little.

Casey aims a gentle shove at his chest, and Rupert dissolves into giggles against Casey’s neck. Casey groans quietly.

“You’re going to tease me about this constantly, aren’t you?”

\---

They spend the morning designing Rupert’s warding tattoo. For him the design isn’t as personal, a simple rune chain rather than something invoking protection via specific being’s symbols. Rupert has never had godly protectors the way Casey does; the only beings he can feel easily are the ones he has to deal with in his capacity as a Watcher. In some ways, he’s jealous of Casey’s prodigious divine family; in other ways, he feels it’s better that he’s ended up alone in that respect.

Casey agrees that they should get their tattoos as soon as possible, but that Rupert should wait. For one thing, his magic is much better at warding than Casey’s is; he’s not quite as defenseless magically. For another-- which Rupert hadn’t considered even a little bit-- His arm will need to heal as much as possible first, before he goes about adding a new injury. Casey gives him a Look that makes it very clear he’s unamused with Rupert’s disregard for his own health. Rupert would be offended if it wasn’t true.

Around lunch Casey suggests he should pop by the high school, and Rupert cringes.

“What?” Asks Casey.

“Ah… You remember that I compelled the Willow girl to give me Amy’s address?”

“Yeah?”

“Her friend was… none too pleased, I imagine. I don’t know if he saw you in the car, but the girl certainly did. It may be best to let them have some time to forget about it before you return.”

“Hm.” Casey thinks for a moment. “Maybe I’ll just lurk, then, see how the vibe is.”

It only takes two hours for Casey to return. Rupert raises his eyebrow as he sips his tea.

“We have a case,” Casey says. “Girl comes stumbling up, terrified, draws a crowd. Says she ran into a huge black dog. Seems like no big deal, and then as she’s guided inside the building part of the facing just-- slides off the building and nearly kills her!”

“Oh, glorious,” Rupert mutters. _A black shuck. In America. Joy, I thought I’d left them behind._

“So you think it is?”

“A shuck? Yes, sounds like it.” He takes another sip of his tea.

The problem with black dogs is that despite being vaguely demonic there’s rarely ever any literature on how to get rid of them. Usually it’s a priest or other man of faith, calling down God to remove the beast. They’re not the type of Hellhound favoured by the demonic offspring of the Old Ones; those are physical beasts, hybrids just like the vampires. Nor are they the more Classical form of hellhound like Cerberus, more of a deity than a spirit or a beast. Folk black dogs are in an annoyingly vague grey area; clear on the signs of their presence, extraordinarily sparse on how to fix that.

Casey crosses his arms, starting to pace. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Almost all of the myths about black dogs end with ‘and they avoided that area forevermore.’”

“Mm, yes, or ‘and they built an inn where it was spotted and made money off of its occasional sighting.’”

Casey throws his hands up. 

Sighing, Rupert sets down his tea. “Have you ever studied theology?”

“What, are you asking if you have to be a priest to get rid of the thing? Because the answer is yes. The God that does the whole smiting demons thing is an asshole and only responds to his robed acolytes.”

Rupert blinks. “There are two Gods? Mm-- that’s not the point. So we can’t simply invoke Him to get rid of it.”

“No,” Casey mutters. “He believes in suffering and building character or some shit.”

Rupert snorts.

They spend the rest of the day reading books and arguing about how to handle the dog. None of the exorcisms that Rupert has will work on a Folk creature; they’re designed specifically to deal with a demonic bloodline, either destroying the vessel or removing the demonic influence from it….. Which almost always destroys the vessel anyways. Black dogs are, loosely, spirits, yet they’re powerful enough that the protections one might use against a human ghost are nigh useless.

By evening, Rupert has a headache. He sets down his book and tosses his glasses on top of it, massaging the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to chase the pain away. From the floor, amidst a pile of books, Casey lies spread eagle.

“Find anything?” Rupert asks dully.

Casey groans.

He sighs. Every book is a dead end, and they’re not in Europe-- no priest they could approach in Sunnydale would give them the time of day. 

Casey sits up suddenly, like a man possessed. “I’ve got it!”

“What?”

“I-I-I-- I have to go, I have to go and check-- Ooh!” He nearly flies to his feet, dancing through the books and fluttering into the bedroom.

_”What?”_ Rupert asks again, standing from the table. 

Casey reappears, slinging on his coat. “I-I-I have a friend, he’ll know something for sure, I just gotta--”

“Casey.” Rupert interrupts, walking over to the younger man and taking his hands. “Please.”

“Ahh--” He bounces a little. “Okay-- So, I met this grim in one of the cemeteries. He’s really sweet and I promised him-- Oh! I need a jar! But anyways I promised him I’d come back but _surely_ he’d know about another black dog in the area, right? I mean aren’t dogs territorial or something? S-so I gotta go ask him--”

“You met a _what?”_

“A grim, a church grim, Rupert. Although I don’t really know if he’s actually from a church he’s just-- It doesn’t matter, let’s go!”

He tries to leave, but Rupert tightens his grip on Casey’s hands, stopping him short. “Absolutely not.”

“W…” Casey pauses, squints at him. “Huh?”

“There’s a black dog on the loose and now you tell me you’ve already _met_ one, here in Sunnydale? How are we to know it isn’t the same dog?”

“No, no--” Casey shakes his head. “You don’t understand, the one I met is a guardian, and also he’s a good boy so really, rude. He would never do that. But we have to go ask him if he’s seen anything, he would _definitely_ know--”

Rupert sighs. The grim might be a good lead, yes. Assuming it really isn’t the dog that’s been seen around town, assuming they aren’t in league with each other, assuming it’ll even want to help at all. Casey gives him an impatient look. 

“Fine,” Rupert mutters. “Fine, but I’m coming. Let me get my coat.”

\---

Casey leads him into the twilight with his arms held out to his sides, fingers tracing daintily through the air like a Disney princess. Rupert has the distinct feeling he has no idea where he’s going, following some kind of instinctive pull or information Rupert isn’t privy to. He pauses at a fencepost, then turns down a new street before his stride takes on any kind of confidence. Rupert almost bowls him over when halfway down the street Casey slows his pace considerably.

“Casey?”

The younger man points across the street to a large tree. Rupert blinks.

“You can’t feel it?”

“Feel what, Casey?”

Casey scoffs. “Open your magic, okay? Let them get a read on you or else they won’t like you.”

Suspiciously, Rupert does so, and he feels the cool mist of Casey’s magic snake around his form, tickling the edges of his magic and pulsing in a peacock-like manner. Displaying him. After a moment, Casey bounces on his toes and makes a pleased noise, retracting his magic as he turns to smile up at Rupert. Rupert raises his eyebrows in response.

“Man, you really couldn’t feel it, could you?”

“What was I supposed to be feeling, pray tell?”

“Umm…” Casey casts about for a moment, wiggling his fingers. “Crouch down here, facing the tree. Just so I can reach your temples.”

He kneels.

Cool fingers press into his temples, soothing away part of his headache, but before he can think about it too much Rupert feels Casey’s magic pour into his mind, and a terrible itching fills his eyeballs.

“It’s okay,” Casey murmurs. “Just look.”

And so he does. The world is lit up in a kaleidoscope of colors, everything more saturated and vibrant. Traces of color drift through the air, the sky, the grass, beneath the pavement and deep into the earth. A sweet emerald haze clouds his peripheral vision. And there, across the street, the tree Casey had been looking at is ablaze with the colors of autumn, with sentience, and Rupert feels the tree looking back at him.

He jerks backward in surprise, bumping into Casey whose hands drop steadyingly to his shoulders. The colors fade back to the twilight Rupert had been seeing before, and although the tree looks just like a tree again, an unnerving presence presses into the center of his forehead

“That,” Casey says, leaning down to speak next to his ear, “Is a rowan. Those fae protecting it are sort of part of a hive mind, all fae of their kind connected. They know me, and now they know you as one of my entourage. It won’t extend you protection, exactly, they’ll barter with you same as they would any other human, but they won’t attack you if you step onto their land.”

Rupert is speechless. He’s never been able to sense the fae before, and now that he’s had a taste of them he’s rather glad. He can sense the similarity, now, between the fae of that tree and Casey’s magic. Casey’s energy always has the quality of clean, fresh spring air. Something bright and bracing and wild. The tree feels the same way, but without the gentleness and subtlety of Casey himself the wild feeling is an uncomfortable shock to the system. Casey pats his shoulders.

“C’mon, cemetery’s this way.”

In the cemetery, Rupert watches Casey’s gaze flit around with a bit more respect. The younger man is clearly seeing an entire world which is unknown to Rupert; he offers smiles or nods of respect to beings Rupert can’t see or sense. His hands trail through the air, perhaps feeling something Rupert can’t imagine. 

Casey may not be a powerful mage in the way Rupert is, but he’s certainly powerful in his own right. His ability to see and feel and communicate with the unseeable is comparatively decades beyond Rupert’s skill and knowledge. He makes up for his gentleness with an enormous wealth of information and knowledge that more strength-oriented witches couldn’t hope to access. _Honestly, perhaps his gentleness is the reason he has so many willing informants to begin with,_ Rupert thinks.

Casey stops at a large headstone, crouching and patting the grass in front of it fondly. 

“This is it.”

“Now what?” Rupert asks as Casey sits down, leaning against the headstone.

“Now we wait.”

And so they wait. At first it’s relatively pleasant; the graveyard makes Rupert a bit uneasy, but Casey seems calm and relaxed, talking at length about the fae which protect the area, the kindly ghosts, and his experience with magic in general. He takes Rupert’s hand and, charging it with his own magic, shows him what the world feels like to a more nuanced touch. Rupert finds it disturbing, to be honest. He’s not a fan of death magic, hates the stone cold feeling and metallic taste it leaves on his tongue, but again he’s able to sense it in Casey once he’s felt it from the world at large. That same adamantine certainty, the same metallic tang, drifts on the edges of Casey’s mist. He can only imagine what Casey’s energy must look like to someone who can actually see it.

By early morning, however, Casey has been talking less and less. It’s clear he’s disappointed the grim didn’t show. Personally Rupert thinks this is a bad sign, as if the creature is avoiding Casey so it won’t be caught out, but Casey still kneels, frowning in concentration as he projects a message of some kind to it.

They walk home to the sun rising. Casey has his head down, and sighs every now and then. Something gleams on the concrete.

It’s a coin. A dollar coin, shining brand new. Casey stops dead, then swiftly picks it up, cradling it in his palm.

“Okay,” He murmurs to the coin.

“Okay?” Rupert asks.

“‘Be patient,’” Casey relates, pocketing the coin. Then he translates, “Something’s up, we just have to wait.”

“You got that from a coin?” Rupert asks incredulously as they resume walking.

Casey shrugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking at you, reader(s) who don't like how soft their colors are. Gentleness can be strength and you can bet it will be one of Casey's.


	16. It's Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert gets antsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, bear with me. Writer's block, I'm just getting it out. The plot will return momentarily (unless you're actually here for the personal stuff, in which case uhhh... I have a gift for you?)
> 
> TW for um..... probably many things.   
> -Tattoos/needles  
> -Dysphoriaaaaaaa  
> -Basically a lot of BDSM-y stuff but more from a planning perspective than from a sexy one  
> -Choking

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ “‘Be patient,’” Casey relates, pocketing the coin. Then he translates, “Something’s up, we just have to wait.” _

_ “You got that from a coin?” Rupert asks incredulously as they resume walking. _

_ Casey shrugs. _

* * *

_Saturday, Eleventh of October, 1997_

_Casey_

 

So they are patient.

Or they pretend to be. Rupert keeps his lips pursed and drums his fingers back-and forth, back-and-forth on the table as he reads. Casey goes out to patrol every day and checks the cemetery every night; Rupert stopped coming after the first time, but Casey always comes back with a small handful of coins, round skipping stones, buttons and news of sulfuric stains on the concrete. 

The first day, news of a man falling down in a coma after he threatens a dog in his yard. The second, a child explains to the police that her mother had fallen and hit her head because a huge doggy had leapt through the window, shattering the glass, as her mother had been about to strike her. The police report that the window the child had claimed broken is completely intact. The mother may never wake up. The next day, a girl visits her sister at college and sees a black dog on campus before she finds out her sister has fallen ill. A small boy reports that he saw a dog on the roof before his mother slipped in the kitchen and broke her ankle. 

Rupert throws down the most recent paper in a flurry of pages, and Casey jumps. 

“This is absurd,” He mutters. “Five people attacked by this beast and there’s nothing we can do about it? Good--”

Casey snorts a little. Not “good Lord,” and they both know it. Rupert rests his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands.

“Are you okay?” Casey asks gently, leaning against the edge of the table.

Rupert has been taking this one harder than they would have thought. It doesn’t feel like the same thing that had been on his mind before, to Casey. It doesn’t feel particularly deep. He just seems so frustrated.

Rupert sighs and raises his face to look wearily at Casey. After a moment, he reaches out and pulls Casey nearer to him, hugging them where they stand and pressing his face into their stomach. Casey cradles his head, petting his hair and waiting.

“I thought I’d left them behind,” Rupert murmurs, muffled. He turns his face a little to the side and continues talking. “In Britain we have things like this all the time… Things there’s not much you can do to fix. It was just a fact of life, but I _hated_ it. I thought here it would change; American beasts don’t tend to be the incurable kind. I guess not.”

Casey sighs a little. “In America, the incurable beasts are usually the people.”

He snorts a little and tugs on Casey, pulling them into his lap and curling around them, nuzzling into the juncture between shoulder and neck. Casey shivers a little as Rupert’s hair tickles their neck, but he simply holds them tighter and breathes. After several minutes, Casey has gotten the distinct impression that Rupert will stay like this as long as they let him. They shift a little, making themself more comfortable.

“Ru?”

“Hm?”

“That’s not what’s frustrating you, is it? I mean, a black dog is old news for you.”

“Mm,” He agrees into Casey’s neck. 

“So what is it?”

He heaves a stuttering sigh, and finally sits back, looking across the table at nothing. 

“I’m restless, I suppose. I hate doing nothing.”

“Mm,” Casey hums, and then something clicks in their head. _”Ohhh…”_

Rupert looks at them quizzically.

“W-- It’s just, you-- Ahh. Okay. I get it. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

_It’s a Dom thing,_ Casey thinks, and there’s no way in hell they would ever say that out loud to Rupert. T _hat feeling where no matter what you have to be doing something, taking care of something. The fear of stillness. Because Rupert is most definitely the sort._ They think of his insistence on taking care of them, on the way he’s handled their breakdowns. How he had brushed their teeth for them, for Christ’s sake. That mischievous smile he gets sometimes. Rupert is still frowning at them, and he looks very cute. Casey flashes him a self deprecating little smile; they won’t be explaining this one.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine.”

“So, you need to do something?” Casey bounces a little, sitting up. “What should we do then?”

“Tattoos?”

\---

Finding a tattoo parlor in Sunnydale is not as hard as Casey had thought it would be. There are at least two in sight in the less-seedy seedy area of Sunnydale. For once Rupert dresses down, opting for a white T-shirt and leather jacket with his nice chinos, and boy is it a mindfuck seeing him casual and at ease talking to a tattoo artist. Casey is suddenly forcefully reminded that he does have his ear pierced; he’s probably been to places like this before. He’s all business, discussing the tattoo with the artist, but Casey can’t focus much beyond imagining him with his earring in. _God, he must have been a fucking **stud** when he was younger._ Casey rolls their eyes at themself. _Who am I kidding, he still is._

The logistics of getting a tattoo in the middle on one’s back is difficult without disrobing, and even though Casey is a master of quick changes and being as unrevealing as possible, they’re extraordinarily uncomfortable the entire time. Sitting with their back and ribs bare, unable to see the front of the shop, their paranoia skyrockets at an incredible rate. Their skin crawls from being touched, and although they try to focus on the low hum of Rupert’s voice as he chats with the artist the sharp cat-scratch pain of the needle is more immediate. They don’t _like_ focusing on pain as a distraction method, since it pulls old habits back to the surface. But they’d rather get lost in the pain than have a panic attack.

The tattoo doesn’t take long; or maybe it does, but Casey had dissociated right through it anyways. When they leave the shop Casey is fully aware they’re walking murderously; pedestrians practically flee from Casey’s path. But right now if they try to regulate back to something less evil-murder-bitch they’ll scream.

“Are you alright?” Rupert asks, as soon as they’re into the car. He hadn’t said anything on the street, but Casey knew he’d been aware of their mood.

“I just don’t like being touched,” Casey says, a little tersely. 

It’s not the full truth. Rupert thinks as he drives, eyes flickering between the road and his thoughts. Casey sighs, and leans forward to rest their arms on the dash so their weight isn’t on the tattoo. 

“It was just a bunch of bad things. Had my back to the window, shirt nearly off, someone touching me. Loud environment, bad tactile sensations.” They shake their head a little. “One by one maybe it would have been fine, but together….”

“Do you really dislike being touched so much?” Rupert asks. “Have I been…. Overste--”

“No, no,” Casey interrupts him. “No. It’s different, you know? I hate being touched by people who have some kind of power over me. That artist, in a way, could have done anything he wanted to me. Could have marked me up however he saw fit; I sure as hell couldn’t see what he was doing. You…”

“Do I not have power over you?” He asks, genuinely wondering. 

“I mean, not really? Physically I can fight you off, financially we both know I can handle being without your funds. And it’s kind of extremely obvious you’re not the schemey underhanded type. The only power you have over me is what I want you to have.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s a good thing.”

Casey snorts. 

They lapse back into silence. There’s more Casey wants to say, to explain, but they’re not sure they can. Just thinking about it brings back that terrible fragile, vulnerable feeling. They don’t want to feel fragile right now, even if they’re sure Rupert would sweep instantly into caretaker mode. After feeling so on edge, the thought of giving him that power is frightening.

They know they will, eventually. Especially since Rupert can sense there’s something more, even if he doesn’t know what. Right now he doesn’t know them well enough to push, but in the future that might change. It’s a terrifying thought. Dizzying. 

“You feeling better?” Casey asks, baldly changing the subject as Rupert parks. “Now you’ve gotten something done?”

“A bit, yes,” He admits. “Thank you.” 

He glances at them sideways. “Although I still want to know what it is that made you realize…”

Casey grins. It’s false in emotion, but true to the flow of the conversation.

Maybe, Casey considers as they skip up the stairs ahead of him, Rupert’s need to be doing something could be satisfied in a way closer to the root than simply keeping busy with work. It leaves them breathless and nervous to consider, that letting Rupert take care of them might actually benefit him as much as it would them, but even though their hands shake as they unlock the door they can tell they’ve already made up their mind. 

They bustle into the apartment and into the bathroom; Rupert hasn’t even made it to their floor yet, so they grip the edge of the sink and stare at themself in the mirror. _Am I really going to willingly let him…. “Protect” me? Have I **ever** done this before?_ They haven’t, they well know. Never. They’ve never in their life willingly been vulnerable. _Boy does it show._

They hear Rupert’s footsteps on the landing, hear him enter the apartment and close the door. He follows their energy to the bathroom, and as Casey meets his eyes in the mirror they force themself to disengage their jaw to avoid grinding their teeth. 

_ Casey? _

He doesn’t say it, but Casey can hear his gentle concern in the way he looks at them. They break eye contact, sighing as they look away, watching in their mind’s eye the next few seconds as Rupert moves to stand behind them, lagging just a fraction of a second behind what they see. His hands rest on their hips, and they take one deep breath and then another, unable to relax. But then he shifts his grip, his palms warm against skin underneath the fabric, and Casey’s whole world is his hands. Haltingly at first, fighting against the little safeguarding lock on their emotions, they begin to talk.

“I-I hate being reminded of…. Of… this body. Stupid things like having to be so careful how I lift my shirt. Like how I couldn’t just pull it off, easy-peasy. How this stupid _fucking_ body i-is just an-- _object,_ that doesn’t even belong to me. I hate drawing attention to it, I hate being reminded of it, I hate when other people realize “oh-- she’s really a girl” because then I know they’re not thinking of _me_ anymore. Just what I look like.”

There, they said it. They can’t remember having closed their eyes. They’re not even entirely sure their eyes _are_ closed, because they can still see everything in that hazy sort of precognitive way. Rupert is so close behind them, and they can feel he’s not quite on the same page as them, still a little curious where this is going, where they’ll let him go. His hands travel up their body, pushing their shirt over their shoulders, over their head; then scrunch forward as he discards it, stiffly allowing him to remove their sports bra as well. They’ve been naked in front of him before, of course, but this time it’s different. He wasn’t looking, before. 

His hands rest lightly on their back; just fingertips, his thumbs brushing over the medical tape holding the cling film over their tattoo. His eyes are on their face; Casey can feel it like static on their cheeks, and they open their eyes. The bathroom is bright-- god, why is everything always so bright?-- but Casey’s eyesight is as good as it has been since their Awakening as the Slayer, and Rupert is clear as day in the mirror. His hands drift down to their waist and he pulls Casey back against him in a hug, wrapping his arms around them and splaying one hand across their upper stomach, thumb resting perfectly at the bottom of their sternum. Their skin tingles from his touch-- it always does, but he’s looking at their eyes, at their face. 

“I see you,” He says, with the weight of a quote. 

And he doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t try to add qualifications, and the finality of his statement has Casey relaxing into his arms. They don’t feel on display, they don’t feel objectified. They just feel like them. They relax the tight rein on their mind, and let that drifting fog roll in. They feel Rupert’s presence solidifying behind them as they melt, his gaze sharpening and deepening as they both slip into different roles. Probably he knows they’re doing this for him as much as they are for themself, Casey considers dully as he rests his lips against their hair. That’s okay. The hand on their stomach slides up to their chest, pressing there for a moment before cradling gently their throat, and Casey slips away on a wave of calm. It’s okay. His thumb caresses gently their carotid, not applying pressure, but it’s reassuring and comforting that Rupert actually knows how to choke properly. _Of course he does,_ Casey thinks. _Strange, dichotomous man._

_ ….Perfect. _

There’s no more work for them to do today, and that’s okay. It’s okay because Casey is calm and relaxed and Rupert has his mind occupied by monitoring that; attentive as always. They can hit the streets tomorrow, when they both feel more settled and ready to focus. The shuck isn’t going anywhere in the meantime, and they can’t track it. This is fine. It’s okay. Right now they can just relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who got the reference and wonder why that wasn't the title of the chapter, well, the answer is simple! It's a future chapter :p


	17. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert learns a bit about the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are short and my brain isn't working but whatever

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ There’s no more work for them to do today, and that’s okay. It’s okay because Casey is calm and relaxed and Rupert has his mind occupied by monitoring that; attentive as always. They can hit the streets tomorrow, when they both feel more settled and ready to focus. The shuck isn’t going anywhere in the meantime, and they can’t track it. This is fine. It’s okay. Right now they can just relax. _

* * *

 

_ Sunday, Twelfth of October, 1997 _

_ Rupert Giles _

 

The next day, Rupert’s head is clear. They hadn’t done anything particularly lascivious last night; contrary to his usual, Casey had been silent and pliant in his arms. His mind had been completely occupied with Casey, with watching Casey, with reacting only to what Casey gave him and no more. 

And it worked. He knows Casey likely had done a bit of scheming beforehand, but the next morning Casey is at ease and vibrant and Rupert's mind is ready to handle the black dog. Sort of. He’s not frustrated anymore, but that doesn’t change the fact that they still have no leads on how to handle the damn thing.

Casey, on the other hand, seems to have had an idea. He’s rustling attentively through Rupert’s books.

“Rupert?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think… I mean, I’m not sure, but do you _think_ we could summon it?”

“I beg your pardon?” Rupert sets down his own book, raising his eyebrows at Casey across the table.

“Well it _is_ a demon, isn’t it? Just a modern, low-powered one. Theoretically all spiritual entities can be summoned if you have the right materials.”

“Yes, but usually one of those materials is the demon’s true name.”

Casey hums, looking at his books. “I’m gonna try anyways.”

And so he does. To be frankly honest, he puts in a lot of effort. Rupert is not entirely shocked to find out that Casey has been stealing small items from the victims’ houses, and that he’s kept a few of the sulfuric stones left behind by the dog’s appearances. They travel to an empty alley at sunset, the perfect time to call a being of dark; when darkness slowly comes across the land. Rupert contributes his knowledge with binding circles while Casey sets the stolen items and sulfur around the circle and begins to call. He kneels on the ground, closing his eyes and attuning himself to the items; this is a form of summoning similar to but not quite the same as what Rupert prefers; a gentler form of finding the beast, suited to Casey’s weaker magic. Rupert, if he had the right information, would have ripped the fabric of reality apart and pulled the beast to him; Casey, by contrast, follows the beast’s energy and essentially begs it to come to him with whatever enticements he may have on hand. 

A breeze travels down the alley as Casey kneels, at first lightly scented of pomegranate wine and honey before the air begins to shiver and a metallic tang corrodes the atmosphere, thick in the back of Rupert’s throat. Casey’s breath has deepened, his pose of unnatural stillness. His hair lifts in the breeze.

“I feel him,” Casey says abruptly.

“Oh?”

“He knows we see him. He won’t come.” Casey struggles for a moment, brow furrowed, and a chill prickles across Rupert’s skin. “He’s laughing at us.”

Eventually, Casey relaxes with a sigh, and the breeze smells like honey again. “Damn it.”

“We knew it was a long shot,” Rupert soothes as Casey begins to pick up his supplies again.

“Guys?”

Rupert turns; at the end of the alley is Angelus, looking around nervously as the energy dissipates. Casey doesn’t look up, scowling as he reworks his plan and scuffs out the chalk lines with his feet.

“What are you doing?” Angelus asks.

“There’s a folk demon terrorizing Sunnydale, have you heard?” Rupert asks wryly. “We were attempting to summon it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Angelus snarks back quietly. “Didn’t work, huh? I didn’t think you could summon their sort.”

“You can,” mutters Casey. “When they’re not bastards about it.”

“Oh.”  Angelus shifts a little. “Can I help?”

Casey and Rupert exchange a glance. On one hand, there doesn’t seem to be much any of them can do. On the other hand, another pair of eyes is always nice. Rupert speaks for both of them.

“Keep an eye out, please. The thing has been incredibly hard to keep track of.”

Casey groans a little.

“He’s still mocking me.”

“What? You can still feel him?”

“Well, I have his attention now,” Casey says. He holds out a hand. “Wanna take a look-see?”

Rupert hastily declines, but Angelus shifts a bit forward. 

“What do you mean?”

“Ah-- he can imbue other people with enough of his energy to be able to sense what he does. It’s extremely…. Disorienting.”

Casey smirks a little, but the smile quickly fades. His eyes look into the distance.

“He’s…. Ru, I think he’s not just saying shit. I think he actually has an attack coming.”

“On whom?”

Casey scoffs. “Well he’s not just gonna tell me that, is he? Nope, there he goes. Gone. Great.”

“When?”

“Soon,” He mutters. “Cue to the wild goose chase.”

\---

They track the portents all over Sunnydale. Lightning strikes, sulfuric stains on the paving, misty black canines starling people as they leave the grocery. And, as Casey had annoyedly predicted, it does indeed appear to be a goose chase. How the dog is doing it Rupert doesn’t know, but every portent is randomly placed and timed, all over town. Angelus will meet up saying he just heard a report of a black dog just as Casey and Rupert are leaving from another sulfur mark. For all appearances the beast is simply popping wildly all about town, having a ball of a time and driving them all crazy.

By midnight, they meet in the parking lot of yet another grocery. The annoyance has infected Angelus too by now; at one point he had even shown his demonic face from pure frustration although he'd quickly put it away, seeming ashamed of his visage. Casey is pacing with barely controlled tension, and Rupert is fighting dearly the drumming impulse.

Suddenly, Casey trips and stumbles gracelessly. On the ground before him is a shining silver coin.

“Casey?”

It’s not a normal coin, Rupert can see. It’s not modern. The metal is uneven, the pattern stamped. On one face, the owl of Athens. Casey stoops to pick up the large coin, turning it over in his hand. When he looks up, his eyes are distant and hard.

“It’s time.”

And he sets off. Again, Rupert feels as if Casey has no idea where he’s going, following signs only he can see. He strides with one hand outstretched before him as if the coin is pulling him in the right direction; perhaps it is. They follow Casey away from the residential area and towards main street, at which point Casey breaks into a run.

Their target appears to be a small bar a bit out of the way which Angelus reacts to with a surprised noise of recognition; Casey thunders down the stairs and through a beaded curtain only to stop suddenly just inside the doorway. Rupert runs right into him, and Angelus narrowly avoids running into Rupert, but the reason for the holdup is terrifyingly clear.

Inside the main area of the bar, an enormous black canine stands. It’s silhouette is that of a Doberman, and yet no Doberman could ever be so large. Instead of a proper two feet at the shoulder, this beast is closer to six with ears nearly brush the ceiling. It’s coloration is pure black; no fur or texture to be seen, as if the dog itself is a void. Grim mist curls from the edges of it’s form.

The dog swings it’s huge head to look at them, before looking back down at his prey; a man, terrified, lying on the floor between it’s massive paws.

Casey is trembling in front of him; Angelus is gripping at his sleeve. Rupert has no idea what to do. Any second, that man will be torn apart, and-- Casey raises the coin, the metal flashing in the dim lighting. He holds it towards the dog like a talisman, but it’s just an old Greek form of currency. In a trembling voice, he speaks.

_ “I call on ye, my family, _

_ I call to aid my plight. _

_ Before me stands a malady _

_ Alone I cannot fight. _

_ I call on ye, my father dear, _

_ I call on ye, my brother; _

_ I call upon my guardian near, _

_ I call upon the Other.” _

Without finishing the incantation, he opens his fingers. The coin seems to fall in slow motion, turning edge over edge, sparkling and glimmering in the low lighting….. Sparkling too much. The group shields their eyes as a dazzling shimmer overtakes the room. A presence like static electricity, like fire, like the purest of light hovers near the ceiling; in front of Casey, difficult to see in the dazzling light, a small canine form raises it’s hackles towards the shuck.

The huge black dog turns, it’s attention flickering over the church grim before affixing on the bright light. A sub-bass growl, barely audible and terribly palpable, rumbles through the air. 

“Get ‘im,” Casey whispers.

The light explodes, dazzling filaments of brightness sparkling across the room. The man on the floor screams; the shuck roars; Casey, Rupert, and Angelus cry out in pain as the light blinds them. By the time they can see again, it’s over.

The man on the floor is still alive, panting and gasping for breath in a puddle of his own urine. The shuck is gone, as is the bright light, but Casey’s church grim still stands before him in defensive position. Casey and Angelus had both instinctively clung to Rupert, and Rupert had reached out for both of them. He releases the vampire immediately; the undead man looks mildly embarrassed. Casey, he holds onto a bit longer.

Seemingly satisfied the danger is passed, the little grim turns around and looks up at Casey with a void-black doggy grin. 

\---

They parted ways with Angelus before heading back to the apartment. Casey seems lost in thought, turning his coin over and over in his hand. When they get back Rupert makes them tea and they drink in silence. 

Casey had, somehow, gotten rid of the shuck. No priests, no fighting-- or at least not by them. Rupert isn’t entirely sure what had happened; he’s sure the incantation Casey had used was only half as long as is should have been, and yet it had still worked. And he would really like to know what all the coins are about; Casey has been collecting them in a large jar.

“What _was_ that?” He asks eventually.

“Which part?” Mutters Casey.

“Um, the-- _light,_ to start with.”

“That was Sparkles.” Casey takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “He’s technically my guardian angel. I don’t see him often, really, and I don’t know his name. He’s just really sparkly.”

“Guardian _angel?”_

As in angel of God? Rupert is learning new things every day. He supposes if God-- or _Gods,_ plural, are real, then their heavenly courts also would be. Still, it’s bizarre. Casey nods along.

“Mhm. He’s the lowest choir-- all guardians are. But he’s, you know, a real angel. Not a daimon or a lar; he’s not Classical. It’s kind of weird, really.”

Understatement.

“And the coins?”

He holds up the coin, showing Rupert the other side; a bust of Athena. “This is a decadrachm, a good old fashioned ancient one. Hades is the kind of god to spoil his kids; he’s the god of all the riches under the earth, after all. Money is kinda his thing. They can all communicate other ways, the gods, but the ones close to me know I work better with a physical object to read or use as a tether, so my gods have been sending me clues and messages with coins or coin-like items.”

Of all the-- Casey is concerningly blasé about a great many things, but to just name drop the Lord of the Greek Underworld as his father _in passing?_ Rupert is lucky that Hades is comparably a rather benevolent god; he was feared back in the day for his association with death, but by all accounts he was a fair and kind ruler. Good Lord. At least he's not involved with the son of _Zeus._

“H-how exactly are you the son of a god?”

Casey shrugs. “Gods are just like that. They show up and go, ‘hi, you’re mine now. Have a nice day!’”

“And this is… a regular occurrence?”

“Mhm.” He sets down the coin and begins to count off on his fingers; “Hades, Thanatos, Anubis, Hermes, Cerberus by association, Charon by association, Athena-- scary lady, Hestia, Dionysus, some random Norse dude whose name I don’t know yet, the fae of the rowan--”

By now he’s counted all his fingers and is beginning to count back over them.

“Stop-- Stop,” Rupert says hurriedly, taking Casey’s hands. “There are more of them?”

Casey tries to wave his hands, but Rupert is still holding them so he shrugs instead.

“They like me.”

Rupert laughs. 

This is beyond bizarre. Rupert is a historian; and by that he means an _ancient_ historian. He works with primeval evils almost exclusively, and here Casey is with half a pantheon and a squadron of fae looking over his shoulder. Most people in Rupert’s line of work consider Classical and Folk deities to be nonentities; they’re usually not directly involved in anything; usually it’s their followers who cause trouble if at all. And yet Casey had, without even commanding anything, sent out a distress signal to his heavenly family and had vanquished the black dog without having to lift a finger. 

“I-I believe…. This is something of a generational divide,” Rupert says. “Most Watchers don’t consider gods or angels to be of much use _or_ much threat, nowadays.”

Casey shrugs again. “To most people they’re not. But most people aren’t routinely handed divine quests to vanquish evil.”

“A-and…. Are you implying that _everyone_ has some sort of heavenly squadron of protectors?”

“Yeah?” Casey says, as if he’s not even sure why this is a question. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Well I certainly don’t!”

“Rupert, your knowledge and skillset is heavily geared towards Ancient beings; you can at least sense them a little, if you’re able to summon them with nothing more than a name. The more modern gods and deities wouldn’t be interested in you because you can’t sense them, can’t communicate with them in any way. You wouldn’t be interested in working with them, so they steer clear.”

“A-are…. Are you suggesting…”

“That you have primordial demons and deities watching over you? Yes.”

“Preposterous!” He stands from the table, releasing Casey’s hands to run his own through his hair. “I-I would-- I would know-- and I wouldn’t want _demons--”_

“Oh my God,” Casey mutters, throwing his hands up. “You were a demonolator! At one point in your life you _did_ want demons involved with you!”

“W-well I’ve changed! I don’t--”

“Have you?”

“What?”

_”Have_ you?” Casey asks again. “Have you really changed?”  _ Because it doesn’t look that way from the outside. _

Rupert stops in his tracks. Has he really changed? Beyond the growing up and the growing cautious, is he really a completely different person?

No, no, he’s not. Taking out his earring and stashing his guitar in the closet don’t automatically wipe away who he used to be-- for God’s sake, he’s still living completely surrounded by his occult books! He still studies demons day and night, he still knows how to summon or kill them, he still takes honest joy from learning about them. If he had really changed, there’s no way in Hell he would ever have become a Watcher. He would have gone vanilla-- in every sense of the word. 

But-- Casey is looking at him with patient, knowing eyes. But-- h-he’s not _really…._ All his life he’s learned that the people who work with those demons in any capacity other than killing them are evil. Does that make him…?

“I-I-I don’t want to talk about this, right now,” He stutters.

“Alright,” Casey agrees. His voice is gentle and mild. 

_Shit._ Does this make him…? He wanders back to his chair and sits slowly, perching his elbow on the table and resting his temple in his palm. Too many thoughts are rushing through his head.

The smell of pomegranate wine invades his senses and Rupert looks up to see Casey’s stomach-- looks up further as Casey climbs slowly into his lap. The younger man’s eyes are so gentle, so… steady. Solid. There’s an instinct about him, beyond that of the Slayer. He knows how people think, and so he’s always thinking ahead.

He knows Rupert is panicking, and he knows how to calm him down. Tricky little thing, he is. But Rupert lets him. Casey isn’t wrong in his guess that physical contact will distract him; isn’t wrong in his silent, respectful approach. And Rupert is beginning to think that Casey likes it both when Rupert gets lost in him, and when Casey loses himself in Rupert. _Where did he learn to handle people like this?_ It doesn’t matter. He wraps his arms around Casey’s middle and buries his face in the younger man's chest, breathing him in. Casey is so small in his arms. Small and not even a little bit fragile. 

_ ….Perfect. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow accidental parallel with the last one lolol. Anyways, we get some Rupert development now! Yay!


	18. Call It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casey calls some bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha wow that was a bit of break between chapters. Sorry bout that.

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ The smell of pomegranate wine invades his senses and Rupert looks up to see Casey’s stomach-- looks up further as Casey climbs slowly into his lap. The younger man’s eyes are so gentle, so… steady. Solid. There’s an instinct about him, beyond that of the Slayer. He knows how people think, and so he’s always thinking ahead. _

_ He knows Rupert is panicking, and he knows how to calm him down. Tricky little thing, he is. But Rupert lets him. Casey isn’t wrong in his guess that physical contact will distract him; isn’t wrong in his silent, respectful approach. And Rupert is beginning to think that Casey likes it both when Rupert gets lost in him, and when Casey loses himself in Rupert.  **Where did he learn to handle people like this?** It doesn’t matter. He wraps his arms around Casey’s middle and buries his face in the younger man's chest, breathing him in. Casey is so small in his arms. Small and not even a little bit fragile. _

**_….Perfect._ **

* * *

 

 

_ Thursday, Sixteenth of October, 1997 _

_ Casey _

 

Over the next few Days, Rupert is brooding at best. He seems to be actively avoiding his books, and a small furrow is always present between his brows. Casey does their best to offer him as many cuddles as possible-- more than they would normally prefer, but Rupert frowns less when Casey is in his arms so it’s really not much of a price to pay. Patrols are quiet; Casey’s little grim friend has returned to his cemetery, and Sunnydale is slowly coming back to rights after the unfamiliar shock of a Folk demon. 

Well, one thing is different. Casey is spending a couple patrols now with Angelus, who is glib but no longer horribly annoying company. It’s almost unfortunate how much he cuts down on the workload; a handful of vampires split between two people means a very fast and very boring fight. Of course, with how often Casey has been sighing and frowning themself, Angelus eventually takes notice.

“Everything alright?” He asks as they patrol a park that night. Casey grimaces a little, looking out into the darkness. “Trouble with your man again?”

“No,” Casey mumbles. “Well-- Yes, but no.”

They can feel him staring at them in incomprehension.

“It’s hard to explain,” Casey says. 

“We’ve got all night,” Angelus counters a bit ironically. 

That’s not _why_ it’s hard, though. Casey isn’t sure how to explain, what words to use. They don’t know how to make the situation make sense to Angelus, who they know extremely little about. They struggle for a moment in silence, and Angelus waits patiently.

“You said you have your soul?” Casey asks eventually, grasping at straws. “How does that work?”

“I was cursed,” Angelus says slowly, thrown off by the apparent change in topic. 

“No, yeah, I know. I meant why doesn’t a vampire have a soul? Or do they?”

“Oh.” He pauses to think for a moment. “They do. A life force, anyways, not like you or I would consider a soul. I can still feel Angelus inside me, you know.” His face darkens. “I fight against him every day.”

“So the vampire is actually a separate entity?” Casey asks, a little surprised but already working his words into their own explanation.

“Unfortunately. Close as I can figure, the vampire soul is sort of like yourself but from the demon’s dimension. When you’re killed and sired by another vampire, the alternate demon version of yourself is able to use that tainted blood to access your body and possess it. That’s why vampires are so similar to their human selves, I think. They’re just a different version of the same person.”

“So wait, the demon’s name is Angelus, not yours? What’s _your_ name?”

“Ah.” He scrunches up his nose, visibly reluctant to say it. “It was Liam.”

“Oh.” They walk in silence for a moment.

“Why did you ask?” Asks-- Liam, after a while.

“Well, you know the ancient history, right? Ancient beings rule the planet, new race of mortals emerges, war ensues, Ancients are banished to a separate dimension?”

“Yeah?”

“And you know how the Watcher’s Council considers everything Ancient to be evil, which is stupid and inaccurate?”

“Yeah?”

“And you know how witches have some extrasensory abilities and are able to communicate with beings they have an affinity for?”

“You’re _really_ not good at explaining things.” 

“Jesus, Liam, I’m trying. _Anyways,_ while I have an affinity for Classical and Classical-borderline-Folk beings, Rupert has always been in tune with Ancient ones. So of course, growing up in a Watcher family, he thinks his whole life he must be inherently evil and that he has to become a Watcher as penance.”

““Born a sinner” bullshit,” Liam grumbles. 

“Well, yeah.” Casey agrees. “But you know how childhood conditioning goes. He goes his whole life thinking he’s inherently bad, probably only reinforced by his presumably shitty parents, and now he finds out that I have a fucking phalanx of deities watching over me while he has, seemingly, none.”

“Reinforcing that he’s inherently bad,” finishes Liam. “What does that have to do with vampire souls?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Casey admits bashfully. “Other than that my brain doesn’t go in straight lines and so I have to kind of start a topic my brain associates with what I wanted to talk about in order to talk about it.”

“You’re really something,” Liam says, chuckling a little and shaking his head. 

“So yeah, Rupert is upset about that and I kind of mentioned he probably _does_ have a godfam, just that they’d be Ancient beings and not more modern ones, and he didn’t like that very much.”

“Ouch,” Liam mutters. “That guy’s really had a rough time of things, hasn’t he?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. He really scares me sometimes. Not-- like he would hurt me, but like he would….” Casey waves a hand vaguely, encompassing the ordeal with Rupert cutting up his arm. “You know.”

“He reeks of emotion,” Liam says. “I know he’s supposed to be the smart one, but you smell a lot closer to a vampire than he does. --True demons aren’t supposed to feel emotions. Supposed to make us more logical and thus better life forms, or something.”

“You’re not a demon,” Casey says gently. “You just share a body with one.”

“Yeah,” He mutters, more to move the subject along than to agree.

“So, you saying I’m emotionally stunted?” Casey asks, changing the subject and playfully shoving the taller man in the arm.

“Aren’t we all?” He counters with a wan smile.

“Ah, yeah…”

\---

When Casey gets home, Rupert in sitting at the table, staring into space and drumming his hand back-and-forth, back-and-forth against his thigh. He holds a mug of tea in his other hand, but doesn’t appear to remember he should be drinking it.

“Ru?” Casey calls hesitantly, closing the door behind them.

“Oh--” He turns to look at them, a tired almost-smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he sets down the mug. “Welcome home. Good hunting?”

“Nah. Just walked around town all night talking with-- Did you know vampires have souls?”

He blinks. “Um, yes.”

“Yeah, Liam-- His demon soul’s name is Angelus, but _his_ name is Liam. There’s like two whole versions of him in one body.”

Rupert laughs a quiet, humorless laugh before his gaze slides back to staring at nothing. Worry stabs Casey through the heart. 

“Ru?” They ask again, quieter this time as they move to crouch hesitantly by his chair. He glances down at them, taking gently the hand they had placed on his leg. 

“I apologize,” He murmurs. “I’ve been distracted.”

Casey doesn’t know what to say. They want to check if he’s alright, but they know he’s not. They want to know what’s on his mind but don’t know what they would do if he gets upset again. Crying is one thing, but his desperately frustrated rants are another. Deciding honesty is the best approach, Casey begins to talk. 

“I’m worried about you,” They admit, making eye contact with him so he can read on their face not to interrupt. “I know something is bothering you and I can guess as to what some of it is, but I have no idea what you need from me and I’m scared because I don’t know how you handle your emotions, yet, other than that your method is wildly different from mine. I can’t apply my own experience to intuit how to help you and in the absence of data all I have to go on is…” They don’t say it, but sadness weighs down Rupert’s face. “Which I don’t even know how to fit into the scale of emotional responses. Please tell me what’s going on, or tell me what to do.”

He sighs, and cups their face gently between his hands. For a moment they just stay that way, Rupert’s thumbs tracing the curve of Casey’s cheekbones, his eyes memorizing their face. Then he guides Casey up into his lap and holds them, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. “What you’ve seen thus far hasn’t-- Inspired confidence, I’m sure. I’ve… A relationship which includes emotions beyond petty rivalry and lust are not something I have any experience with.” He takes a moment to order his thoughts. 

“I do need from you what you’ve been doing. I don’t imagine a relationships without arguments is possible, and in any case I appreciate your attempts to keep my head on straight. I appreciate that you’re honest with me, Casey, and I believe even if I don’t necessarily like it, I do need it.” He sighs. “Keep doing what you’ve been doing. “Call me on my bullshit,” As you would say. It’s not your job to regulate my emotions, although I do understand the urge. I’ve been… Unfair, to you, recently. There were so many better ways I could have regulated my emotions that never even occurred to me.”

He pauses, and gives a rueful little laugh. “It will be a bit of a learning curve, I’m sure. But I’m willing to stick it out…. If you are.”

Casey closes the minute distance between their faces and kisses him, pulling an electric shiver of tension through their muscles. Rupert clings to them almost desperately; they can feel his heart beating beneath their palm.

“Of course I am,” Casey says a little breathlessly as they part. “I’m sorry I’ve--”

They stop, and the tiniest hint of a smirk graces Rupert’s mouth. “You have nothing to apologize for,” He says a little pointedly.

Casey pouts thoughtfully. “I’m used to apologizing.”

“We both have things to learn.”

Casey sighs and relaxes into Rupert’s arms, enjoying the peacefulness. Their heart is beating a little harder than it should be, and they’re not sure why. It’s almost frightening not to feel afraid for once.

“So,” Rupert murmurs as his hand runs up and down Casey’s back. “Any bullshit to call me on?”

Casey groans a little, and mumbles into his neck, “You have an unfounded bias against all things Ancient.”

\---

_ Saturday, Eighteenth of October, 1997 _

 

So maybe that wasn’t the smoothest way to phrase it. They spend the rest of the night, and the next day, and the next night, and the _next_ day debating. Rupert, of course, adamantly disagrees that he has any such bias, or really any bias at all. He’s a historian, after all. He simply learns information, he doesn’t nitpick. Casey points out that history is written by the winners, in this case the humans, and also that it’s basically impossible for any person to be completely unbiased. Casey has some biases too, but the problem arises when a person is unaware of their bias, or refuses to be aware of their bias. That sends Rupert spluttering.

“What about the Ancient deities, huh?” Casey demands, staring him down. “You know damn well it wasn’t all demons back then, same as every other time period since. Are all those deities of life and growth and sun evil too?”

“No--”

“But they’re Ancient, aren’t they? You’d look down on a witch involved with an Ancient deity, wouldn’t you? You just wouldn’t be disdainful of them like if it was a demon.”

He splutters some more.

Casey knows they’ve almost gotten their point through. Rupert is aware he’s not being logical, Casey has pointed out too many flaws in his logic and hit too many nails on the head. They just need to find a way to make the inconsistencies click. 

“Why exactly is it that you’re so dismissive of Ancients? They came before all of this. They built the foundations of nearly everything in our world today. How are they less than the modern gods and beings?”

“I-- You--” He struggles, clearly unable to find a good answer. Casey waits, and can see from the slump in his shoulders and the lost, confused frown on his face when he reaches the conclusion that his bias is, not only present, but unfounded.

Casey shrugs. “That’s all. You can’t keep ignoring half of history just because you personally believe it’s bad. It still existed.”

Rupert heaves a deep, bone-weary sigh. “Right,” He murmurs, very quietly. “You’re right.”

Casey relaxes their aggressive stance and walks across the room to kneel in front of Rupert’s chair, placing their hands on his knees gently. Rupert’s much larger hands cover theirs automatically, and he sighs again.

“Bedtime?” Casey asks, looking up at him without hardness or accusation.

“Yes,” He says, leaning down and giving Casey a small kiss. “Let’s.”

Now it’s up to him. Casey won’t raise the topic again unless they notice him starting to shut it out, and even then only gently. Rupert is a brilliant man, and Casey is sure if he does some thinking and reads his books again he’ll start reforming his own, less-biased opinions in his mind. When they go to sleep that night, while he still feels troubled, Casey can feel a forward momentum has started. They kiss the furrow between his brows in the darkness.


	19. Que Sera Sera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rupert reads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nearly delirious rn so I cannot brain I am Sorry
> 
> TW for. I think..... like, reminiscing about childhood neglect/abuse???? idfk I need sleep

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ When they go to sleep that night, while he still feels troubled, Casey can feel the forward momentum has started. They kiss the furrow between his brows in the darkness. _

 

* * *

 

_ Sunday, Nineteenth of October, 1997 _

_ Rupert Giles _

 

Rupert comes awake the next morning with no transition; one moment he is asleep, and the next he feels perfectly functional and is looking into the semi-darkness at the fluffy top of Casey’s head. The sheets are warm and it feels good to have Casey in his arms, but Rupert is wide awake and if he stays still trying to prolong the moment he’ll only fidget and wake Casey up. It’s a little bit of a task to extricate himself from bed-- the younger man mumbles in his sleep, fingers clumsily grasping at Rupert’s T-shirt-- but Rupert is awake and he needs to be up and doing things.

The first order of business is breakfast. He wouldn’t normally skip it, but he’s in the mood to this morning. However, Rupert can see future-Casey glaring at him already and so he cooks some food and eats a small portion of it before he goes to his books, tucking the rest of the food into the refrigerator for Casey. He pulls down every compendium on Ancient lore he has-- overkill, surely, but his research won’t feel complete if he doesn’t even /touch/ all the relevant books. There’s no need to read them cover to cover, anyway. As long as he pulls them down and opens them for a cursory glance, he won’t feel as if he left anything out. Then, with a hastily prepared mug of tea, he begins reading.

Casey rises well past noon, but Rupert doesn’t notice. Absorbed as he is in his books, he receives a violent shock when Casey’s small, cold fingers touch his shoulder and the younger man pressed a kiss behind his ear. He seems to know Rupert is busy, though; he takes his food to the coffee table, shuffling and bleary, drowning in one of Rupert’s sweaters. It’s a little bit harder to research after that, as Rupert’s eyes are periodically drawn away from his texts to the figure on his couch, reading some book or other quietly after his meal, but by nightfall Rupert has finished reading and sits back in his chair.

His brain is tired. He hasn’t done quite this much active rethinking and learning in a while, and the mental and emotional strain of carefully questioning his knowledge is making itself known. Casey is fiddling about in the kitchen behind him, Rupert realizes; He’s made honest to God-- Gods-- shepherd’s pie for dinner, although he’d neglected the pie tin.

“I…. didn’t quite realize you could cook,” Rupert says, and Casey looks up before offering a wry smile.

“I was a “girl” in a half-southern, half-Asian family. Of course I can cook.”

The pie is quite good, and Rupert wonders if there’s anything Casey can’t do. Besides formal education, apparently. They wash the dishes together, bumping hips now and then as they battle for a dish or reach across each other, and as they dry their hands afterwards Casey leans against the counter.

“So. How’d the research go?”

“It…. went,” Rupert says. “I’m rather embarrassed by how selective my memory appears to have been.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Casey dismisses easily. “So?”

Rupert tries. He really does try to say what Casey wants him to say, but the words stick in his chest and all he can get out is a frustrated sigh. Casey grimaces sympathetically.

“I-I-It’s not that I think you’re wrong,” Rupert assures him-- and possibly also himself, following Casey out of the kitchen to sit at the table. “I just… Can’t.”

“I know,” Casey replies gently. “We’ve got time, Ru, it’s not like you have to have an epiphany overnight. Okay? It’s alright to take your time.”

He nods, looking blankly at the scattered papers on the tabletop. Why can’t he just admit that-- Why can’t he even think--? 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” He mutters in annoyance, resting his forehead in his hand.

He looks up to see Casey pursing his lips and squirming in the chair opposite, squinting far off as if to play innocent.

“What,” Rupert says flatly.

“I-I-- I don’t know,” Casey hedges. “I mean I’m not you, of course, so I can’t _know.”_

“...But?”

“But I would _guess_ that simply re-learning information won’t be enough to restructure deeply set emotionally based beliefs from childhood.”

Deeply… Rupert groans and lets his forehead hit the table-- or he would have, if Casey’s hand hadn’t shot out and cushioned the landing at the last second. He sighs, rocking his forehead against Casey’s knuckles as he thinks. 

Deeply set emotional beliefs from childhood. The sort one gets from one’s father, perhaps? One’s father who is a Watcher, a set of professionals who virulently vilify all things Ancient? One’s father who harped day and night, incessantly, through all of one’s childhood and a short potion of one’s adulthood, about the duty inherent in being a Watcher? _Yes, that would fit the bill,_ Rupert thinks sarcastically. But he doesn’t want to admit that he has-- ugh-- “daddy issues”. _...Which is yet another step, isn’t it?_

“Can I accompany you on patrol, tonight?” Rupert asks dully. He needs to get out. He needs to accomplish something.

“Oh.” Casey says, a little surprised. “Sure.”

\---

“Oh,” Angelus-- uh-- Liam, says, when Casey and Rupert meet him in the park.

“Do excuse the interruption,” Rupert says drily. “It _is_ my duty to make sure the Slayer is as efficient as possible, I would be remiss if I never patrolled with him.”

He may be making things a little awkward, but Rupert doesn’t care. For one thing, he’s not the biggest fan of the vampire, soul or no. For another, that might actually be one of his problems and if it is Lords help him. He trails behind Casey and his patrol partner and lets his mind be occupied by watching them fight. The fine details of his-- eugh-- “daddy issues” will be worked out somewhat in the back of his mind, hopefully. For now he needs something he knows. 

Casey is as efficient as ever, but Rupert notices the smaller man seems more aggressive than he had been in the past. Instead of quick clean kills, he’s taken to nearly-taunting slashes and light, definitely-almost-mocking blows. He’s also letting vampires come near them instead of killing from afar, which would worry Rupert if the things lasted more than a few seconds between the lighting fast attacks from the Slayer and the heavy, focused blows from Angellllll--Liam. The vampire is much sloppier in form than the Slayer, but it’s clear he has many many years of experience at his back and a clear, strong tactical mind. _It’s an interesting contrast, certainly,_ Rupert muses as he watches. 

“Casey,” He asks eventually, later on in the night. “Why are you letting them get so close?”

Casey looks a bit put on the spot; his gaze shifts from Rupert to Ang-- Liam and back again. 

“It’s just boring, killing them with no fight,” He says after a moment. The petulant pout is audible in his voice.

Rupert raises an eyebrow. _So that’s what the new technique is about._ It’s surprising petty for the usually level-headed Slayer.

“I know I shouldn’t take risks,” Casey admits, looking away. “It’s just been getting on my nerves. There’s not even a little bit of a challenge with me _and_ Liam patrolling.”

The vampire grimaces and looks away when Casey uses his name, and Rupert narrows his eyes before turning back to the Slayer. 

“In our line of work, it _is_ better to remain unchallenged,” He says gently. “But I understand. Had you… considered sparring with your vampire friend?”

The two share a glance. 

“No, not really,” Casey admits.

“My place is big enough,” Ang--L-- The vampire admits slowly.

Casey snorts. “Your place is empty.”

“I have plenty of furniture!”

“No you do not!” 

Rupert clears his throat, and Casey shrinks bashfully. “Yeah, we could try that.”

\---

As Casey and Rupert make their way back home some many hours after midnight, Rupert takes a shuffle back through his mind to find, annoyingly, that it’s not accomplished very much at all without his conscious effort. He tsks quietly to himself, and Casey looks up at him questioningly.

“Sorry,” He mutters.

Casey keeps looking, his eyes luminously pale and unblinking in the moonlight. Rupert gets the distinct impression he’s supposed to keep talking.

“I-I had hoped that after the intellectual difficulty was over, my mind would start to order itself regarding the uh, _deeply set emotional_ bits of it. It seems I was mistaken.”

Casey snorts and looks away, nodding. “Yeah, unfortunately emotional issues need to be either brute forced or left to sit for months.”

“Mm.” _Months, you say?_ But no, Rupert isn’t able to let anything alone for that long. It would drive him up the wall. It’s _already_ driving him up the wall. He looks in the opposite direction from Casey and asks a question he possibly shouldn’t be asking. “What…. What was your father like?”

“Ah,” Casey says darkly. “Well, um. Teenage delinquent who grew up into a tattoo-covered hippie who seems introspective and soft-spoken until he starts hitting animals and small children. Blindly in love with my mother since high school. Might have been a cool guy in another timeline, I guess.” He pauses. “What about yours?”

“Rather the opposite,” Rupert admits, emotionally shying from the topic but aware that he started it. “Richer than anyone needed to be, a hereditary Watcher who stuck to rules before he stuck to anything else. Loudly outspoken, outgoing… steeply outdated in most of his views…”

A silence builds between them, both avoiding the turn towards a topic they both know is there. Rupert’s already brought up bad memories for both of them, he doesn’t want to push more. Maybe it’s selfish… It’s definitely selfish. But he can kid himself that his intentions are altruistic. Eventually, Casey speaks first.

“My dad always said I was lucky. His mom would hit him with spoons or slippers or turn her wedding ring around so that it cut his face. He only hit me once, and it was open handed at that. Barely even hurt, physically.”

Rupert chuckles darkly. “Oh yes, the fabled “back in my day…””

“Back in my day if we wrecked our clothes we didn’t get new ones!” Casey mocks.

“Back in my day we respected our elders!” Rupert adds bitterly, a vision of a large mahogany desk table with his father lecturing him from behind it swimming past his vision.

“Were you ever allowed to sit at the head of the dinner table?” Casey asks eagerly. 

“Never.”

“Parties?”

“I hid.”

“Under the banquet table?”

Rupert barks an unexpected laugh. “Really? No, the tablecloths weren’t long enough. But there were plenty of rooms in my family home that no one was using.”

“You were allowed to _leave the room?”_ Casey gasps, hopping a little in envy.

“Allowed is a loose term. Big parties, lots of people, who would miss little old me?”

“I would have let you hide with me under the banquet table,” Casey says, skipping now.

As odd a thing as it is to say, Rupert is oddly touched. “Why thank you.”

Had they been children at the same time, he’s sure he wouldn’t have minded Casey’s presence as he hid from his family either. They walk for a few minutes in silence and Rupert wonders what Casey would have been like as a child before Casey speaks again. 

“Wh… When did your dad start with the Watcher stuff?”

Rupert can’t pinpoint an age. The memory swims past his eyes; himself, short and slightly pudgy before the growth spurts had started. He father, crouching in front of him seriously.  _ “Now our family business is very important, son, do you understand?”  _ He’d said.  _ “It’s what makes us who we are, Rupert, and no Giles man has ever been much a man at all if he wasn’t a Watcher!” _

“I don’t remember,” Rupert says quietly. “Too soon, I’m sure.”

Casey looks up at him worriedly. “What did he…”

“He was the preachy sort,” Rupert says. “Every few minutes, it felt like, he’d be on again about duty and what it meant to be--” A breathy, desperate laugh flies out of his lungs. “What it meant to be a _Giles man,_ what it meant to be a true Watcher. As if I bloody cared, back then. There’s a reason I flew so far off the handle, you realize. I had to prove to myself that I could exist outside of that-- that _stringent_ little code. Everything a Giles man would never do, everything a Watcher would never do, I did. I suppose there must have been _some_ logic to it all, as I got someone killed.”

Casey clearly wants to contradict him, lines creasing his forehead. But he doesn’t, and Rupert is thankful; he can’t hear it right now. All he says is, “Is that why you became a Watcher, after all?”

“More or less,” Rupert admits bitterly. “My grandmother-- Paternal-- found me after all that time and… Looking back it nearly seems she brainwashed me into returning.”

Casey hums understandingly and walks a little closer to Rupert, slipping an icy cold hand into his. Rupert squeezes the digits in his palm, hoping to transfer some heat to them.

“I can’t regret what’s already done,” He says quietly. “If there were another path available to me, I’d take it. I’ve just never been able to see what that path might be.”

“What will be will be,” Casey says, and it sounds like a promise.

A loose promise, ill defined and shaky. But Rupert knows by now that Casey has a talent for finding his way in the dark, both literally and figuratively. He’s better at it than Rupert is, at any rate-- maybe just because he’s younger, maybe due to circumstance… He can’t be sure. But he trusts the cold little hand in his to pull him in the right direction. It’s been a long time since he really trusted anyone like that.

They return to Rupert’s apartment in silence, and in bed Casey clings to him like a koala, allowing Rupert to hide his face in the younger man’s neck and breathe in his warm, sweet scent. He’s tired; it’s been a bit too long of a night, for him, and his mind is still turning. But that sensation of a block has lessened. It might take some time, but Rupert is certain now he’ll figure himself out and move on. It’s no small motivation to have the solid reassurance of his Slayer by his side; with that unwavering support, he’ll make it through. Casey could bolster him through anything.


	20. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam starts being honest. So does Rupert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am brain dead. I cannot the words. Halp

PREVIOUSLY

 

_ He’s tired; it’s been a bit too long of a night, for him, and his mind is still turning. But that sensation of a block has lessened. It might take some time, but Rupert is certain now he’ll figure himself out and move on. It’s no small motivation to have the solid reassurance of his Slayer by his side; with that unwavering support, he’ll make it through. Casey could bolster him through anything. _

 

* * *

 

_ Sunday, Twenty-Sixth of October, 1997 _

_ Liam “Angel” Corcoran _

 

It’s been a week since Giles had joined he and Casey on patrol. Casey tells him things are going smoothly, and doesn’t elaborate much beyond that. Liam doesn’t pry.

After the Watcher’s suggestion last week, Casey and Liam have been attempting to spar at Liam’s place. The issue with this is that Liam prefers boxing, and Casey prefers form and speed drills, and they both get very bored of practicing the other’s preferred fighting style very quickly. After one mishap where Casey had lost his temper and broken Liam’s nose, they desisted to just talking.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Casey is saying, sitting crosswise in one of Liam’s armchairs. They’d spent the evening thus far talking about everything and nothing, and now Casey’s strange mind has latched onto a discrepancy. “I mean, one minute you’ve disappeared for a couple hundred years, and now all of a sudden you decide Sunnydale is the place to be?”

“I, well,” Liam mumbles. This is not a topic he’s comfortable with. “I mean I had just gotten my soul back, I was reeling. You have no idea what it does to you, to find out you’ve done so many horrible--  _ horrible _ things.”

“But you didn’t,” Casey interrupts. “I mean, it literally wasn’t  _ you, _ it was the demon Angelus riding in your body. Those are two different things.”

Liam grimaces and ignores the niggling in the back of his mind. “But he still is me, in a way, isn’t he? Anyways. I had to find a way to repent for what I’d done, so I… A Hellmouth just seemed like the right place to start.”

“I don’t get you,” Casey says. “I mean how old are you? More than two hundred?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been alive-- or, you know, around-- for more than two hundred years and you’re still in the brooding sixteen-to-eighteen phase?”

He cringes. “I am not.”

“Dude, you so are. You died a little older than I am now and if I’m being honest, you do  _ not _ give off two-hundred-year-old vibes. Not to a normal human, anyway. You’d seem like any other broody white college kid unless you could sense magic. Feel free to correct me, but from where I’m sitting it looks like getting killed  _ really _ interrupted your emotional development.”

Liam can’t help but laugh a little at that, even though he’s slightly offended. As if getting killed doesn’t interrupt most things? So maybe it’s true he’s not the most balanced person, that’s not his fault. He didn’t  _ try _ to get turned into a blood-drinking freak of nature.  _ No, I just went around drinking and whoring every hour of the night, tempting fate as much as humanly possible. _

Casey makes a face and shrugs, acknowledging the strangeness of his statement. “I don’t know,” He desists. “I just don’t think there’s much point to immortality if you’re not going to use it to grow and improve yourself.”

“You’re right,” Liam agrees grudgingly.  _ Very _ grudgingly. “But you’ve gotta understand I was a piece of shit as a human. I mean, where I am now is an improvement, which really says something.”

“That’s good,” Casey says brightly. “Just don’t win one battle and call it quits on the whole war.”

They lapse into silence.

Maybe he has been a bit loose in the self regulation department, Liam acknowledges. But what can he do? He literally lives with a horrific demon inside his head every second of the day. Any kind of vulnerability, any crack in his control, could lead to endless slaughter. Liam can’t allow that.  _ I already allowed it once through sheer idiocy. Never again. _

“You said that demons aren’t supposed to have emotions,” Casey says slowly, as if he’s just remembered something.

“What?”

“Why did you say  _ supposed to? _ If they simply don’t have emotions, couldn’t you have just said that?”

Liam’s eyes unfocus as his gaze turns inward. Deep behind his conscious mind, swirling like a feline fog of corruption and blood, he feels Angelus. And he feels the demon’s smug amusement. 

“They’re not  _ supposed _ to. That doesn’t mean they don’t. Emotions are supposed to be the mark of humanity, but they’re not. Demons feel things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, but it’s a lie, a deflection. Memories that he doesn’t remember experiencing swirl through his body. The smiling, upturned faces of beautiful girls. The glimmer of crystal in candlelight. The wild breathlessness of the hunt. The smell of dust, stone, and honeysuckle…. An entire lifetime lived by him while he wasn’t even there.

“Do they feel compassion?”

“Maybe,” He allows. “Maybe....”  _ Maybe even love. _ Dark hair and darker eyes lift out of his memory.

“Do you ever talk to Angelus?” Casey asks, clearly angling for something.

Liam wishes he’d stop. Nausea clutches his throat as he feels a pulse of-- of something, from the demon. “Never. He’s a monster.”

“Does he talk to  _ you?” _

“....Yes.”

“What sorts of things does he say?”

Liam sighs. “He taunts me to attack people. He whispers why I should. He says things to me I could never repeat.”

“...Has he ever insulted you?”

“He used to.”  _ So much. _ “Back in the very beginning. But he hasn’t in a while.”

Casey hums and scrunches up his nose, before venturing cautiously, “Does he ever say anything when you call him a monster?”

Liam stares into nothing in silence. 

_ “Aww, cat’s got your tongue?”  _ Jeers a poisonous voice from inside his mind. Angelus coils forward, his presence searing and putrid, and Liam shivers as the demon settles closer to the forefront of his mind. 

_ “What  _ **_do_ ** _ I say when you insult me, Liam?” _ He purrs.  _ “Do I scratch up our pretty little face in retribution? Huh? Do I?” _

No. He doesn’t. He’s never once injured the body they share, not on purpose. 

“ _ Oh,  _ **_Really_ ** _? Are you saying  _ **_you’re_ ** _ the mean one, Liam? Insulting little old me when I haven’t done  _ **_anything_ ** _ to you to deserve it?” _

“It hurts his feelings,” Liam declares out loud, simply to spite the oily voice inside his head. Instead, he feels a warm flicker of satisfaction.

Casey stares at him with unblinking eyes, and Liam forces himself to look away before Angelus comes close enough to see. When the demon gets that close to the front he causes their face to distort and become hideous, and Liam doesn’t want to be hideous right now.

“Liam...” Casey says. “Have you ever considered that if Angelus had a reason to care, he might want to repent for what  _ he  _ did, with you?”

* * *

 

_ Rupert Giles _

 

Rupert looks up from his books as the key turns in the lock and Casey enters their apartment.

“Liam has  _ issues!” _ Casey sings, closing the door behind him.

Rupert snorts. “Hello to you too, love.”

Casey grins and walks over to kiss him hello, glancing down at the book on the table. For a fraction of a second, Rupert wishes he wanted to hide what he was reading, but the impulse to be secretive about his study is gone.

It’s a compendium of every known Ancient entity, with images and lists of powers. Truthfully, most of them are horrific-- beings comprised of rotten flesh, or worms, or flayed and distorted frames. As much as there’s been written about Ancient deities, most of the concrete records-- that Rupert has access to-- are about the demons. But he’s been combing through them nonetheless, and this time his brain has highlighted the demons few and far between who simply look like people, looking warily at the viewer or else simply standing on a street corner somewhere. Of the more human demons, a few are even represented by photographs rather than sketches, and Rupert finds himself wishing to meet them and learn.

There’s a beat of silence as Casey decides what to say.

“What’re you looking at?”

Rupert sighs, and waves half-heartedly at the compendium. The words aren’t quite coming to him, but Casey glances between him and the book before leaning down to take a closer look at the page. “Which ones?”

Rupert turns back a few pages and indicates a red demon with impish features, Ayd’ahashan, then turns back several more pages to a horned gecko-like purple demon called Oloredath.  “The last isn’t in this book,” He murmurs. “I don’t imagine she’s well known to Watchers.”

It still galls him to admit he feels any kind of calling to these creatures. Two Ancient demons-- even if they are both relatively benign ones-- and a deity. But he does. He always has, Rupert assumes, although he doesn’t care to analyze the signs from his past. And it really is high time he stopped denying it, no matter how much he may wish to continue doing so.

Casey doesn’t ask for details, doesn’t press him to talk about it. He just presses a kiss to Rupert’s temple, smiling softly.

“Well done.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayd'a and Oloredath are made up Ancient demons, not canon ones.


End file.
